


Wolf

by thalassic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor, M/M, Major canon divergence, Multi, Time Travel, inquisitor!fenris, lore lore & more lore, major end-game spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 47,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalassic/pseuds/thalassic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris has kept busy since the events at Kirkwall. Tracking Tevinter slavers in the South leads him to the Temple of Sacred Ashes the night before the Conclave.</p><p>From there, everything begins to fall apart.</p><p>OR: Fenris is the Inquisitor and he has no patience for Venatori bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the Valley

**Author's Note:**

> WORLD STATE: Warden was Elissa Cousland. She did everything Nice and Diplomatic so no one unnecessary had to die. She and Alistair rule jointly on the throne. Hawke is male, sarcastic, and a mage. He sided with the mages throughout the entire game, except when it came to blood magic, and romanced Anders.

This should not have happened, he thinks grimly as he comes to. The dungeon is dark, claustrophobic, but he feels at home here. He's comfortable among damp and derelict things.

It's the shackles around his wrists that give him cause for alarm. The panic swells and bubbles up his throat, but he pushes it down. He thinks distantly of the Fade, of spirits and spiders, and the strange energies clashing inside of him and thinks: This should not have happened. A woman asks him a question, but he gives no response. His mind is reeling, putting together the pieces when there are none. He tries to grasp for the memories but they slip away, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

He has no patience for magic, for arcane rituals, for whatever has brought him here, and his fear turns sharp like a blade. They cannot make him forget. Not again.

This is, somehow, definitely, the Tevinters' fault. He just has to remember _how_.

“Tell us what happened at the Conclave!” The words barely register, but they pull him out of his mind and into the present. He narrows his eyes, looks at the cuffs, and tries to phase his arms out of them.

It should be easy. Instead it feels like trying to swim against a current. He doesn’t know of what, he just knows something else tethers him, and the mark on his hand aches and swells. Were he a better elf he would curse the Dread Wolf. Instead, he curses the Imperium, he curses the Magisters, and then finally he curses himself. He swallows around his dry tongue, and begins, “I cannot remember.” He offers no more than that.

“What is that mark?” the Nevarran asks him, accusing.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he says grimly, studying it. It hurts the same way his markings hurt, only the burn is constant. His lyrium markings seem positively dull in comparison. He tries to phase again, and the Mark reacts instead, green energy flaring out at all in the room, licking tendrils on the walls, making his blood and his body _sing_ before furling inwards once more.

All in the room have their swords drawn, pointed at him. It is only when the Orlesian, quiet until now, speaks that the tension eases a little.

“We need him, Cassandra. That mark may be our only salvation.”

Fenris thinks derisively that he’s not interested in salvation. Cassandra, the Nevarran, approaches him, wary, but there is recognition in her face as well. She _knows_ him. How?

“Varric spoke of an elf with lyrium etched into his skin. Are you Fenris?” He tenses. Varric, a familiar name, but not necessarily a friend. Varric makes him think of Isabela makes him think of Hawke and a thousand things gone wrong and an empty mansion in Hightown where bottles and bodies lay strewn about the floor.

He never knew what homesick felt like until just then. Instead he nods.

“I would… appreciate it, if you removed these chains.” He forces his voice steady, sure. He knows weakness is not tolerated among strangers, even acquaintances-of-acquaintances. (He can’t say friends, he doesn’t _have_ any friends. Even six years in Kirkwall hadn’t managed to avail him of the unfortunate affliction of his personality.)

She doesn’t remove the chains, not yet, not until the Orlesian reminds her of the urgency of what they must do and she reluctantly obeys. Fenris tries not to slump his shoulders or show any visible signs of relief. He’s sure Hawke would have noticed if Hawke were here, but Hawke is gone and he is alone.

Par for the course, then.  He gets to his feet and Cassandra steps back.

“I have been informed of your part in Kirkwall, Elf. If you still survive when this is done…” Cassandra trails off.

“I will not submit myself to your judgment,” he warns. He has things to do, slavers to hunt. He has no intention of giving up now, nor apologize for however many hearts he ripped out of however many chests.

“No, I do not mean-“ She sighs, and shakes her head. “I seek only answers. The dwarf…”

Varric. Fenris knows. Varric likes to lie. The few times he’d played Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man had told him that. He was only pleased that he had no money, and thus nothing for Varric to swindle from him.

“First, the Breach,” says the Orlesian. He casts about for his sword and does not see it, and ignores the sense of loss. A gift from Hawke. If he believed in fate, he would believe that it was cruel. Instead he presses his bare feet to the cold stone, feels tremors above, and allows Cassandra to lead him out into the world.

The first thing he thinks when he sees the Breach is that the sky has broken. Beside him, Cassandra sounds sad.

“The people still mourn. We have lost our Divine and so many others…” She turns to him, face hardened. “Did you _do_ this? I know Varric said you hated mages-“ Fenris wants to laugh. It was an understatement and a lie all at once. He doesn’t hate mages, he despises mages, he loves Hawke, he thinks of a halfbreed Somniari and feels pity and wants to kill him as a mercy- “Could you- _Would  
you_ -“ She finds it hard to finish the sentence.

“I played no part in this, Seeker. This… this was _done_ to me.” He doesn’t manage to hide the venom in his voice, and his fingertips twitch with the urge to kill. The lyrium markings are still dormant, however, not even the familiar flare of power.

Cassandra doesn’t look like she believes, but she starts walking again. People stare, but Fenris is used to this. They are afraid of him, and he’s used to that too.

“Besides,” he adds as they cross a bridge and go out into the valley, “I stood with Hawke once. I would not betray that trust.”

“Hatred makes us capable of anything,” she replies. “They say you walked out of the Fade.” Fenris sees nothing wrong with this.

“You are aware of my abilities, Seeker.”

“This… this was different.”

“I fail to see how.”

She sighs in frustration, and he thinks maybe she feels a little more sympathy towards Hawke now. If she does, she does not voice it.

“There was a woman behind you,” she says instead. Fenris racks his brain for the memory but can come up with nothing. He shakes his head, fights the bubbling anger, the urge to scream. He wants to pace and drink a lot of wine but neither of them are good ideas and neither of them are available to him right now. Instead he walks forward and the bridge falls out under their feet in an explosion he should be more used to by now. He regains his balance quickly, faster even than Cassandra can, and faces off against a ghoul. It’s weak, he knows. If he had his sword he could dispatch it in one swing. If he had his lyrium markings, he could rend it in two. Instead he grabs the nearest weapon- a _bow_ , useless, if only Sebastian were here- and hits the ghoul over the head with it.

The monster shrieks, and then dissipates into shadow, Cassandra’s sword stuck through its gut.

She stares speechless at Fenris and the broken bow in his hands. He shrugs carelessly and drops it to the ground. He sees, a few feet away, a proper greatsword. A better man might feel foolish for the mistake. Fenris simply steps over some rubble and picks it up as if he meant to do it all along.

“Drop the weapon,” Cassandra warns. Fenris looks at her with disinterest.

“I do not wish to leave myself vulnerable to attack, Seeker.”

She looks ready to argue, but something about the set of her shoulders changes, softens, and she nods. “Perhaps I was… rash. But if you make any move I don’t approve of, I will cut you down.” Once he would have laughed at that. Now, cut off from his markings, he thinks she probably could.

They fight their way through the valley in silence. They are both warriors, and warriors communicate with body language. Fenris thinks they work quite well together. He also thinks he misses the soft whoosh of magic in the air beside him.

He never thought he would miss the sound of Bianca until a bolt flies over his head and a demon shrieks behind him, and there he is.  
  
Varric. Familiarity, so far from Kirkwall. He almost wants to smile.

“Broody! You’re awake! I told you, Chuckles, our boy’s resilient.”

Fenris scowls at the nickname he most assuredly did _not_ miss, and the familiarity with which Varric says ‘our boy’. The expression just makes Varric laugh, before the fight draws them back.

A few frenzied bolts, heavy swings, and familiar spells later, the other elf grabs his hand and forces it to the rift. He feels a pull, he feels his blood sing, he feels gears shifting into place, and then the tear closes and the power releases him.

He drops to his knees, shaking. The elf looks down at him with interest, and then says calmly, “I’m Solas.” He places a hand on Fenris’s shoulder, leaning down to speak to him quietly, and says, “You need not kneel anymore.”

The cryptic words hardly register, but they do give him back his strength. He nods, rising to his feet, and leans on his sword.

“You alright, Broody? You were out for a few days… That thing on your hand almost killed you.”

Fenris nods, too nauseous for words, and straightens a little more. He appraises the newest companion warily, noting the staff, the ears, the total lack of hair, and the way he feels off. Flickers of red, but Fenris cannot get a good read on his mana, not any better than he can connect to his own markings at the moment. It frustrates him, not to immediately know a mage’s weaknesses, but he thinks of Hawke and resigns himself to allowing this Solas by his side.

At least for the moment. Varric relaxes, and slaps Fenris gently on the shoulder, perhaps remembering a time when Fenris might have reached into his chest at the slightest touch. After six years the touches became more familiar, and with Varric there was no immediate danger.

“We must keep moving,” Solas urges. “The breach will not close itself.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I was kind of hoping we’d just saunter up to it and ask nicely. What do you think, Broody?” Varric grins and slings Bianca over his shoulder, glancing at Fenris.

“I think the end of the world has done nothing to improve your jokes, dwarf,” Fenris says, and is a little surprised that it sounds _fond._ Last he checked he wasn’t fond of anyone.

Cassandra, who has been eerily quiet, clears her throat and takes the lead. “The Breach is further down. The road ahead is blocked, we must take another path.” Fenris falls into the calm routine of following. Together they fight like a well-oiled machine. Solas’s spells are different but familiar and make the air taste like sorrow. Varric cheerfully calls out what he thinks are witty remarks, and Cassandra shares Fenris’s silence.

He knows the only way to earn a warrior’s trust is in combat. He would have it no other way. They fight to the next checkpoint, where the Orlesian woman greets them, a Chantry Chancellor at her side, angry and red faced.

“Seeker! Put this elf in chains and prepare to send him to Val Royeaux.” Fenris is reaching for his sword before he can think, but it’s Varric who steps in between them, hands up.

“That _might_ not be the best thing to say to the angry ex-slave, Chancellor. Call me crazy, but I think you’d better back off.”

The Chancellor sputters and steps back, looking about wildly for someone to defend him. No one steps forward.

“I don’t believe you have the authority to order me anywhere, Chancellor,” says Cassandra, eyes narrowed. “Leliana?”

The Orlesian smiles sadly. “It’s true. With the Most Holy dead…”

“We have to elect a _new_ Divine and let her pass judgment!”

Fenris remembers meeting with Sebastian at the Kirkwall Chantry. He remembers Sebastian visiting him in the mansion, and remembers stories the man used to tell. Fenris doesn’t believe in anything, but he did, once, when his name was Leto.

“What matters is the Breach,” he says instead. He’s positive it’s some manner of magic, because mages like to ruin everything they touch. He’d come to the Conclave to… hunt Tevinters, he remembered now. Slavers. He wouldn’t be surprised to know they were involved.

Beside him, Varric smiles. “Can’t argue with that, Broody.” 

They decide on a plan of attack. Fenris has little patience for mountain paths and demon attacks, though he pauses for a moment when they ask him for his opinion. He isn’t used to leading. He’s used to being a tool. Hawke pointed who to stab, and Fenris cut their heads off. It had worked for him.

He decides that they go through the valley, slaying every creature in their path, until the remnants of the Temple of Sacred Ashes looms above them. Red lyrium reaches for the sky like the spires of Minrathous, and he exchanges a look with Varric.

“This shouldn’t be here,” says Varric. Fenris has to agree, but they’ve little time for discussion. A man approaches them, bloodied but familiar. As he gets closer, Fenris recognizes him.

“You’re awake then,” he says in greeting. Fenris nods his head.

“Cullen.”

“My men are holding position, but not for long,” he tells Cassandra. “You have to seal the Breach.” He looks back at Fenris.

“We’ll talk later.”  Fenris is racking up quite the queue of conversations when this is over. So many familiar faces, though he doubts he can do much to put them all at ease. He stalks forward, gripping his sword, and leads them to the Breach.

The battle is long and hard fought. Fenris had faced an Ogre once, Hawke by his side as they hunted for ironbark. This demon was bigger, deadlier, with _electric whips_ because of _course it did._ When it finally falls, he reaches out towards the Rift, and his vision fills with green.

The last words he hears before he drops to his knees and everything goes dark are, “It’s not enough…”


	2. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends welcome back its time for chapter 2
> 
> this is a very dialogue-driven chapter. there's introductions to be made and old friends to catch up with and fenris isn't good with the whole talking-and-being-nice-to-people thing.
> 
> thank the maker for chatty dwarves right??
> 
> still totally unbeta'd and badly edited cuz im just focusing on getting the story out right now. check out my tumblr if you want: thalassiq.tumblr.com

There is something soft and warm on his skin when he comes to. He turns slightly, body aching, veins throbbing in misery, and presses his face against it. When he opens his eyes, he realizes it’s a _pillow_ , and really, why had he waited so long in Kirkwall to get proper bedding for his room? Why had he insisted on sleeping on the floor, like a dog? Pillows are fantastic.

He hears the crackling of a fire, and thinks maybe Hawke must have come to visit. Sometimes Hawke would do that, bringing him a new vintage of something alcoholic. They would have long debates into the night, and as dawn struck Hawke would stand in the doorway, smile softly to Fenris, and tell him, ‘Tomorrow, then.’

This is not Kirkwall. He sits up, looking around the unfamiliar room, and notes the distinct lack of bodies and holes in the ceiling. His head is splitting, but as he regains his senses fully he also remembers.

Holes in the sky and demons and Tevinters, of course. He swings to the side of the bed and tentatively puts his bare feet on the warm ground.

“Whoa there! Relax, broody, you in a hurry to fall down?” A warm hand pushes him back to the bed, and he glares at its owner.

“Varric.” He hides the surprise in his voice. Right. Varric was here, but Hawke wasn’t.

“So, you didn’t do it, right?” Varric is careful with his words. He always is. Every sentence handpicked for maximum effect. Fenris just gives him a look.

“Why would I use _magic_ to destroy the Temple?” He gestures towards his hand. It is covered in bandages but the mark still glows green through it. “You know how I feel about magic.”

“You’re right.” Varric nods, rubs his hand over his face, and lets out a breath. “But that leaves us with a question. Who _did_ do it? And why you?”

Fenris shakes his head. He remembers the voices from the rift, right before the demon attacked. One his, one the Divine’s, and one… familiar, but out of his grasp. Every time he reached for it it slipped further away.

“What are you doing here, Varric?” The dwarf looks a little guilty.

“Oh, that. Well, ah. The Seeker had questions, and I had answers.”

“About Hawke?”

Varric winces. “I didn’t tell her anything incriminating.”

“There would be nothing incriminating to tell,” Fenris says with finality. Hawke was a paragon of virtue, a Champion of the Just. He had a bleeding heart but that was the only thing he used blood for. He was the only mage in the world Fenris actually liked. “It was Anders who destroyed the Chantry and started this mess.”

The look on Varric’s face changes. “You don’t know.”

Fenris wants to pace. He wants to get out of this bed. He’s _irritated beyond belief._ “Know what?” he snaps.

“Hawke and Blondie were… they still are, uh…”

“Spit it out, dwarf.”

“They were playing hide the salami. After Meredith fell I’m pretty sure Hawke went with Blondie.”

“Oh.” Fenris remembers when Hawke spared the mage. He remembers the look of betrayal on his face, and he remembers how ashamed Anders had looked, despite his insistences. Fenris had always thought it was the same betrayal they’d all felt (save for him, he’d always known not to trust a mage).

“Oh,” Varric repeats, sympathetically.

“It doesn’t change anything. Hawke saved Kirkwall. Who he chose to… fraternize with doesn’t diminish what he accomplished.” He feels sick to his stomach, thinking of the things Hawke would say to Anders that should have been said to _him_. Worse still is the look of pity on Varric’s face.

He gets to his feet, only sways slightly, and grabs the greatsword leaning against the desk.

“Whoa there, Broody, calm down-“

“I have Tevinters to hunt, Varric. They’re what led me to the Conclave. I suspect they’re involved in all this.” He grips the hilt of his sword tight, twists the leather, digs his fingernails into his palms, and ignores the searing pain of the mark on his hand. He begins to pace, wishing there was something in this place that belonged to Danarius so he could throw it against a wall.

“Right. I’m not going to say no to a little good old fashioned Tevinter hunt, but I’m pretty sure _they’re_ going to want to talk to you first. Cassandra mentioned she wanted to see you in the Chantry when you woke up.”

Fenris growls. “What use are they? I can do this on my own.”

“Hawke didn’t save Kirkwall on his own,” Varric reminds him gently. He knows that, it’s true, but Fenris is used to working alone. He doesn’t want to trust these people. He doesn’t know them.

“Cassandra’s a good woman, Fenris. And she’s on our side. Besides, if you haven’t noticed lately, the weather forecast’s a steady rain of demons for the foreseeable future, and you’re the only one with the magic glowing hand around here.”

“It’s the wrong kind of glowing,” he mutters.

“What, you can’t do that little party trick anymore?” Only Varric would refer to reaching into someone’s chest and ripping out their heart a _party trick_. He shakes his head.

“Must have something to do with the mark, right? Maybe Chuckles will know.”

“The mage?” Fenris doesn’t like the mage. He reminds him of something hungry and feral. It’s a kinship he’s wary of.

“He’s a little out there, but he knows his shit. You should ask him about it when you get the chance. He might know why your tattoos aren’t working.” Fenris knows Varric is telling the truth, but he’s loathe to admit it.

He stalks out of the house instead, and Varric make sure he’s headed to the chantry before he splits off and settles in near a fire between some tents.

Cassandra glances up from her argument with the Chancellor when Fenris bursts into the room. “There he is. Let’s just ask him, Chancellor Roderick.”

Fenris pauses, looking at them all, and then snaps, “Ask me what?”

“Whether you’d willingly submit to judgment in Val Royeaux, or whether you have more _important_ things to do with your time.” She knows, from the stories Varric has told her, what kind of person Fenris is.

He would rather face an archdemon than let himself be chained again. “If you try to chain me I will rip your lungs out through your oily mouth,” he tells Roderick. The chancellor goes pale, and quickly leaves the room muttering about madness.

“Well then! Now that that’s settled.” Leliana smiles and approaches him. “Welcome to Haven, Fenris.”

“It’s good to see you up and about,” Cullen tells him. Fenris relaxes a little. He’s grateful for the familiar face, and he knows Cullen to be an honorable man. Kirkwall told him as much.

The final woman in the room clears her throat, and smiles graciously at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fenris. My name is Josephine Montilyet. I’m the ambassador for the Inquisition.” Fenris hates introductions. He’s never sure what to say.

“The pleasure… is all… mine,” he manages to grit out finally. It seems to be acceptable, because she smiles and steps back just slightly, affording him more room.

“We need your help, Fenris. We managed to stabilize the Breach, but that’s all we managed to do,” Josephine starts. Cassandra continues:

“There are rifts all across southern Thedas, and spreading rapidly. Demons pour out from every one. It’s chaos.” Fenris really, really hates demons.

“We cannot do this without you, Fenris. Your mark is the key to it,” Cullen says. “I know we have no right-“

Fenris growls. “No. You don’t. But I will have to join you all the same, won’t I?” He didn’t ask for this. He starts to pace again, hands fisted so tight blood drips from them. He wants to rage and yell and start what the others would surely call a tantrum, but resists.

“It has to be you,” Josephine says gently. “You nearly sealed the breach. We have to declare ourselves to the world with you by our side, or there won’t _be_ a world left.”

“She’s right,” Leliana adds. “On your own, whoever did this to you will surely be hunting you down. If you stay with us, we can protect you.”

“I don’t _need_ protection!” His markings flare, just for a split second, and then flicker out. It’s more than he’s had for days, and though he is still angry he’s also grateful for it.

“Perhaps not. But we don’t know what we’re facing, and we need you,” Cullen states. “I know what you’re capable of, Fenris. You are too valuable an ally to give up.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Knight-Commander.” But he relaxes a little. He stops pacing.

“It’s just Commander now, actually.” Fenris has no opinions on that.

“I’ll join,” he says finally, and sees the wave of calm wash over the group. “On one condition.”

“Yes?” asks Jospehine.

“When we find who did this to me, I rip their heart out myself.”

“I don’t think you’ll find anyone in this room who would argue, Fenris.”

When they raise the flag and nail the declaration on the door, Fenris thinks to himself how strange it is to have a home he’s not squatting in.

It takes less than a week for the word to go out and the world to know the Inquisition has returned. Fenris is called to a meeting in the War Room, and the plan is laid out.

“The Chantry has already denounced the Inquisition and you specifically, Fenris.”

He scowls. “I wasn’t aware a breach in the sky was a religious matter.”

“No,” Josephine agrees, “but some are calling you the Herald of Andraste. They are saying that the woman behind you in the breach was Andraste herself, and that you were sent by the maker. The Chantry is having a hard time believing Andraste would send an _elf_. They’ve denounced you as a heretic.”

Fenris wonders if Sebastian agrees. He wonders if Sebastian was at the Conclave, or if he was even still alive.

“I don’t see why I should care,” he says instead. “The Breach is what matters.”

“Without the Chantry’s support, we lack political power. If we want to seal this breach, we’ll need the mages-“

“Absolutely not,” Fenris says with finality. Cullen smiles softly.

“I agree. Templars could-“

“Could make it _worse_. We need magical power, channeled into your mark so that you can seal the Breach,” Cassandra says.

“I am not interested in seeking the aid of terrorists and I am _not_ interested in letting them experiment on me for the sake of noble goals,” Fenris says.

“It doesn’t matter, really,” Leliana interjects. “Not without the support of the Chantry. We cannot approach the Templars or mages as it is now. One of their members, a woman named Mother Giselle, has asked to speak with you.”

Fenris has a feeling there will be a lot of people wishing to speak with him. He wonders if he can have Josephine write his letters for him.

“Where is she?”

They make plans for him to depart for Redcliffe tomorrow. For now, he has free reign of Haven.

Cullen finds him outside the town, sparring with a tree to regain his sense of balance after being bedridden for days.

“Need a partner?” he asks. They fight in silence for a while, pulling hits when necessary. When he’s finally worked out all his frustration, Fenris drops his sword in the snow and drops down to sit on a nearby log, breath escaping in rapid clouds.

Cullen sits next to him. “It’s a long way from Kirkwall,” he says, and stretches his legs out with a sigh.

“Yes.”

“I know this is a lot to take in. And I know the last time I saw you we were in the middle of fixing _my_ mess.” Cullen’s shoulders scrunch up a little, as if he’s waiting for a reprimand Fenris isn’t interested in giving.

“No less your mess than mine, or Hawke’s, or-“ He doesn’t say the mage’s name. He’s had time to think about it all since it happened. He had _really_ wanted to find a way to blame Anders for all of it, but couldn’t. They all should have known, should have stopped him, should have seen Meredith for what she was. They hadn’t.

“I was her Knight-Captain. But I let her act because I thought she was _right_. I don’t want to follow the wrong person again.” Cullen glances at him. Fenris can’t help the hysterical laughter that bubbles from his throat.

“ _Me_? Why, because some humans have declared I’m the ‘Herald of Andraste’? I’m not the herald of _anything_ , and I doubt Andraste cares much about me.”

“She was a slave in Tevinter too, you know,” Cullen tells him gently. He remembers, stories Sebastian told him back in Kirkwall. Reasons why she would not forsake Fenris, why he was loved by some mysterious and unknown woman who died a millennia ago.

“Yes, I’m sure we have plenty in common. And when the Imperium decided to _keep_ enslaving my people, I’m sure it was all very liberating for them. When they cut off Shartan’s ears and burned him alive, I’m sure he was thinking how _grateful_ he was that Andraste had led him.” Fenris remembers the book Hawke had given him. He remembers long nights spent trying to decipher the words. He still struggles, his handwriting is atrocious, but he knows enough.

“I don’t know what I believe,” Cullen says. “But you showed up when we needed you most. And since you didn’t cause this-“ He gestures towards the Breach- “then you’re the only one we have who can fix it.”

“Why don’t you find Hawke? Have him fix this? He’s good at waving his staff and making problems go away.” Fenris looks down at his feet in the snow. They’re cold, but nothing he can’t handle. He likes the way he can feel bits of old grass between his toes, hidden by white.

“If we could, we would. But Hawke doesn’t have the glowing hand or the power to close these rifts the way you do. Do you want to follow him again, or do you want to try doing things _your_ way for once?”

Fenris isn’t sure what he wants to do. Cullen stands, places a hand on his shoulder, and tells him, “When you know what you want, we’ll be here.”

He knows he doesn’t want to disappoint Hawke. He knows Hawke would tell him that no one decides to be a hero, that Hawke hadn’t known what was in store for him when he came to Kirkwall. That Hawke hadn’t meant to be in the center of it all, but he still had been, and he’d had to deal with it with the weight of a city on his shoulders.

Fenris feels the weight of the world, and he knows he has no other choice. “I’ll close the Breach, Cullen. After that…” He glances at his hand, then clenches it into a fist. “I can’t make any promises.”

“It’s enough.” Cullen leaves him to his thoughts and the vast, empty hole in the sky above.

He really, really wishes Hawke were here.


	3. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Fenris have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is short, more of an interlude before they go to the hinterlands, but necessary to set the stage for future solas and fenris interactions.
> 
> like solas would leave fenris alone. he has the mark AND magic ghost hands. it's like solas's dreams come true.
> 
> as always, unbeta'd, and as always, check out my tumblr if you want! thalassiq.tumblr.com
> 
> also i cant actually remember if fenris does or doesnt speak elvish, but i DO know he doesn't really like associating himself with other elves, so you may read his comment as either "i dont speak elvish" or "i wont speak elvish". either way the sentiment remains the same: fenris clearly doesn't consider himself in the same group as other elves.
> 
> sort of like our weird bald mage elf...

He’s loathe to ask the mage for help, but a night spent fruitlessly trying to phase has him at wit’s end. He approaches the elf’s hut with his sword displayed prominently on his back, but the look the mage gives him is both appraising and deconstructing. He feels like he’s flayed raw to the bone. It just makes him want to stick his sword in Solas’s face even more.

The smug creature smiles mysteriously, and gestures towards the open door of his house. “ _Andaran atish’an, da’len_.”

“I don’t speak Elvish,” he snaps.

“My apologies. _Avanna_.”

That makes Fenris’s jaw twitch as he clenches it, but he says nothing. His stance shifts a little, ready for a fight, but Solas just appraises him.

“You are very interesting, Fenris. Or should I call you Herald?” Solas places his arms behind his back, looking indescribably, effortlessly pleased with himself. It grates on him, but he keeps his voice to minimal growl when he responds.

“You need not address me at all, mage. If you must, Fenris will suffice.”

“An interesting name. _Are_ you?” The mage is as vague as he is infuriating.

“Am I what?” He hates to ask, but he hates leaving the question unanswered more. It feels like talking in circles. He’d rather be fighting a pride demon again. Lightning whips were less of an inconvenience.

“A little wolf.” Solas raises his eyebrows. Fenris is slightly surprised to realize he has them. He would have thought the elf shaved them off with everything else.

“I’ve been known to bite,” he replies cautiously, refraining from reaching back to grab his sword.

Solas just laughs. “Of course. So why have you come to me, Fenris?”

Fenris takes a breath, reminds himself that if he murders this apostate he’ll probably be thrown back in chains, and says, “I have… need of your skills. Varric tells me you studied the mark while I slept.”

“Yes. Fascinating, really. What can I tell you?”

“Did you study anything else?”

Solas looks surprised, and then the smile slowly widens. “Ah. You mean those beautiful lyrium marks. No. I did not wish to invade your privacy further than I already had.”

“Then you cannot help me,” he decides, turning to leave. Solas clears his throat.

“You haven’t yet told me what the problem is.”

He stops, turning back towards Solas. He meets his eyes in a challenge, not wishing to appear weak. “I believe the mark is interfering with my abilities.”

“What abilities would those be?” Solas must know the answer already. Still, some part of Fenris appreciates that Solas doesn’t assume. It’s a welcome change, with so many others assuming so many things. That he was the Herald of Andraste. That he could fix the world. That he was emotionally equipped to do anything except stab whatever he was pointed at repeatedly. He’d been lost since Danarius’s death, wondering what life had in store for him after he’d stopped running. What he’d found was when he stopped, he began to freefall instead.

So he kept moving, from rumor to rumor, slaver to slaver. A modern day Shartan, minus the affinity for immolation and the religious calling and the self-awareness beyond ‘I get restless when I’m not being used’. Though some might argue the religious calling part now.

“I have the ability to phase myself in and out of corporeality. A lyrium ghost, if you will. It’s usually easier to just show, but, well-“

“The mark is keeping you tied to this realm,” Solas finishes for him. There’s eagerness in his eyes that sends a jolt of panic through Fenris.

“I will not do anything you do not wish, Fenris. I stayed by your side while you slept. I did not harm you then, and I will not harm you now.” The words aren’t very comforting. He hears Hawke in the back of his head: ‘You can’t keep living life as if every mage is out to get you, Fenris. Try just stabbing the ones who actually _are_ for a change.’

Fine. He will try. He has never let someone study him before, but if he spent six years listening to Hawke’s bullshit and didn’t at least _try,_ he’d be letting someone down.

Still working out the who, part, but _someone_.

“I am willing to defer to your knowledge on this subject.” He looks away, but holds his hand out for Solas. The elf takes it gently, fingers brushing over the green.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes. It makes the markings ache when I use it.”

“Interesting.” He places his fingertips on one of the markings on Fenris’s wrists, and Fenris fights not to hiss and tug it away. “What else do you feel? When you close a rift, for example?”

“It… feels like it’s tugging on the tattoos. Like my entire body is drawn towards that single point. When the rift closes, it releases.”

“I will have to consult my friends. You are wholly unique, Fenris.” Solas sounds impressed. Fenris just pulls his hand away and looks at Solas sharply.

“What do you mean, ‘friends’?”

“Ah, that. I have friends in the Fade who-“

“In the _Fade_? You mean you consort with demons.” He reaches back for the hilt of his sword. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have trusted the mage. He thinks of daisies and mirrors and dark whisperings in the back of his head.

“No, I consort with _spirits_. They’re two very different things.”

Fenris laughs. He drops his hand, though, because he realizes Solas is more of a fool than a danger. “You speak with demons and trick yourself into thinking they help you. I’ve seen plenty of mages fall to it.”

Solas’s smile grows colder around his eyes. “Not every spirit is a demon. It is those of us in the living world who corrupt, not they.”

“I suppose a ‘spirit’ told you that.” Fenris begins to pace. He’ll have worn a ditch through Haven by morning he’s sure.

“No. I studied them and came to that conclusion myself. Many of them are my friends. The others I have learned to protect myself from.”

“So it is pride that prevents you from seeing the danger, then.”

That earns a soft chuckle from Chuckles, and a warmer crinkle to his eyes once more. “There is much you do not understand, Fenris, but perhaps you know more than I give you credit. If you will allow it, I will consult every source available to me, and see if I cannot come up with an answer.”

Fenris growls. “Speak to your ‘spirits’ then, mage. But you will perform no magic on me, or I will cut you down.”

“I suppose healing spells are out of the question, then.”

An explosion rocking Kirkwall. The mage hangs his head. ' _I had to.'_

“I have potions,” he snaps, and stalks away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andaran atish'an: A formal Elvish greeting.  
> Da'len: Elvish for "little child". Elders call youngers da'len. It's not meant to be condescending.  
> Avanna: Tevene for "Hello".


	4. Bear With It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter, more talking! lots of mage-y issues here. cassandra doesnt feature much in this chapter but i do love her and i'll probably pop in a conversation with her next chapter. she and fenris probably have more of a silent-respect thing going though, solas and varric are waaay more chatty
> 
> as always unbeta'd and unedited. just focusing on getting the story out, i'll likely go back later and rewrite it to make it better. 
> 
> comments make me happy and encourage me to write faster! even if they're just 'lol bears'

What has he ever done to bears, he wonders as he cuts the fifth one in an hour down. They just keep _coming_. Everyone is exhausted. Cassandra is splattered in gore, Varric has run out of puns (‘that swipe _bearly_ got me!’), and Solas has stopped being sympathetic towards them and now sets every one on fire the moment he sees it. When Fenris agreed to go to the Hinterlands to find Mother Giselle, he hadn’t thought it’d be like _this_.

_At least it’s warm_ , he thinks to himself, and spreads his toes in the grass. Every so often a bee buzzes by, or a bird chirps from a tree, before some mage explodes something and ruins the peace.

He’s not surprised to see the Templars attack them just as viciously. He’d learned not to expect much from Templars while in Kirkwall and he hasn’t yet seen a reason to change his mind.

Ferelden, he thinks, smells like dog shit and blood and the heady scent of corruption still hangs heavy in the air. It’s recovered admirably from the blight, all things considered, but it’s still one of the last places Fenris wants to be. Then again, Fenris doesn’t really want to be anywhere, except maybe back in his mansion waiting for Hawke to bring him another bottle of wine.

That isn’t going to happen, so he sets his jaw forward, lunges ahead, and chops the head off an apostate before the man can cast his first spell.

He wipes the blood off and they all take a moment to breathe, as bear corpses and Templar corpses and apostate corpses are all cleared from the road leading to the Crossroads, and the Inquisition forces move in.

“If only Blondie could see what a mess he made,” Varric says beside Fenris, who only scoffs in response. If the mage saw this, he’d only say it was exactly what he wanted. Mages fighting for freedom. All Fenris sees is fear.

Still, to their credit, he hasn’t seen a mage turn into an abomination once yet. He wonders if it’s because the Ferelden circles were different. If so, why had the mages felt the need to rebel at all? He’d seen what the Templars had done in Kirkwall, but if it wasn’t like that everywhere…

“Mage,” he says, coming up next to Solas who is carefully picking bits of gore off his vest. Solas glances up at him, and gives him an infuriatingly enigmatic smile. “Fenris.”

“Do you know anything about the Ferelden Circles?”

Solas leans back a little, thinking. “Hmm. I am aware of them, yes. What is it you wish to know?”

“Were they anything like the Gallows?”

“That place is steeped in far more blood than any other. The spirits in Kirkwall are angry and restless.” Solas sounds like he knows more, but doesn’t say it. Fenris isn’t surprised to hear Kirkwall is a shitty place. He’d known that the moment he stepped into it. Varric comes up beside them and drops down to sit too.

“Are we having story time with Chuckles? Count me in.” He sets Bianca down lovingly next to him, and begins to clean her. Solas gives him a look, then focuses on Fenris once more. They are waiting for Giselle to finish with the wounded, so they have time to kill. In the distance, Cassandra is ordering someone around. It seems to come quite naturally to her.

“Indeed. We were discussing the Circles,” Solas informs Varric. Fenris shifts a little, uncomfortably. He doesn’t like talking about Kirkwall, and he knows Varric’s rehashed the story enough times to be sick of it too.

“The mages here are different from the ones in Kirkwall,” Fenris says to Varric, because he feels like he owes him an explanation. “They do not turn to demons as readily. I am… surprised, that we have not been accosted by an abomination yet, considering how desperately the apostates seem to be fighting.”

“I was wondering about that myself,” Varric admitted, voice going darker. “We saw this happening in Kirkwall and everywhere you looked there was some new demon popping up. Even Orsino…”

Fenris growls. “A desperate fool dabbling in things he did not understand. None of them did. I… have not even seen any _blood magic_ here.”

“The Kirkwall Circle was especially brutal, yes,” Solas agreed. “They treated magic, and by extension mages, with fear. In return, to protect themselves, the mages drew on powers they could not comprehend. They harmed many of _my_ friends with their magic as well.”

“So why aren’t _these_ mages resorting to that power? Surely the fighting here is just as desperate.” Fenris folds his arms.

“Your experience colors your view of mages, Fenris,” Solas says gently. “Not all mages seek to gain power. Indeed, many simply wish to be free. I cannot fault them that wish.”

Fenris thinks of conversations with Anders, and growls. “I know what it is like to be enslaved. Mages are _not_.”

“Perhaps not. I do not think it my place to argue, considering your experiences. Yet you asked the question. The answer is this: The Ferelden Circles were not as brutal as the Kirkwall Circle, no. Mages were not often made tranquil, only for the most serious of offenses.”

“So why rebel at _all_?” Fenris demands. It doesn’t make sense. He thinks maybe Kirkwall’s mages had a reason. They were wrong, but they had a reason. Even he had realized how cruelly some of them were treated. He’d also known Hawke was different. He’d grown up in Ferelden, he’d grown up reasonably free, and he had never turned once to blood magic. But not all mages were like Hawke.

Hawke had been… he _was_ wholly unique. Fenris doubted the average mage had the same strength of will.

Or he had, until he’d come to the Hinterlands.

“The mages in Ferelden were taken from their families the moment they showed any signs of abilities.” Solas closes his eyes. “I have seen many remnants of memories, walked the fade and experienced countless families, some grieving, some relieved. But the common emotion in all of them is fear. They are locked away in a tower, their personal freedoms stripped away. They lose family and culture. They are imprisoned.” He makes a face. “I have never felt it for myself, but to be caged must be a very cruel thing.”

“So the Chantry scoops them up, drops them in a tower, and says, ‘Surprise! Here’s your new home, try not to kill each other’?” Varric says.

“More or less, yes.”

“That doesn’t seem reason enough to be burning down homes and forests in the name of freedom,” Fenris says darkly. “The circles are a necessity. Mages are a danger to themselves and to others. Even if they do not turn to blood magic.”

“I do not consider myself an ambassador for the cause of mages. It is… far removed from the power my people once possessed. Magic these days is a dull echo of what it once was. They lack _understanding_. Fear clouds their judgment.” Solas stands,  and nods to Fenris and Varric. “I hope I have answered your question, Fenris. I believe I will go see if my talents are needed.” He steps over a body still waiting to be collected, and makes his way towards the wounded.

“Weird guy,” Varric says, shaking his head.

“I can’t be held responsible for my actions if I have to hear him talk about the Fade one more time,” Fenris agrees. Varric laughs, slaps him on the shoulder, and gets up too.

“It’s good to have you around, Broody. I almost missed your weird penchant for violence. Almost feels like we’re back home.” His smile slips a little. They’re both thinking the same thing: it’s not home without Hawke. Varric picks up Bianca, slings her over his shoulder, and goes off to harass the Seeker. Fenris stays, still thinking.

“You look troubled.” He looks up, shaken from his thoughts, and watches a woman in chantry garb approach. She sits down beside him and smiles warmly. He scowls, but doesn’t move.

“Mother Giselle, I take it?”

“You would be correct. And you must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste.” She looks down at his hand at the same time he does. He clenches it, huffs, and gets up to pace.

“I am no Herald of anything. Andraste would not be cruel enough to do this to me.” He wants to pick up his sword and swing it into a tree, or a mage, or even another bear. Anything to keep his hands moving.

“I do not claim to know the will of Andraste. I know only that the Maker works in strange ways. Whatever you believe about the mark, it is a part of you now. And with it comes the power to seal the breach.” Her words soothe him a little. He does not know if he can handle someone else telling him who he is, and what he represents.

“You wear your burdens for all to see. You are a chimera of everything that has been done to you.”

“Do not presume you know what has been done to me,” Fenris growls.

“The Maker has seen fit to give you the power to shape your own fate, Herald. I hope you will come to see this as a blessing in time. But I did not ask to see you to speak with you of theology. I wish to offer my advice and my support in dealing with Val Royeaux.”

Fenris stops pacing, and turns to face her. “There is a giant hole in the sky and no one seems too concerned with it. I’m not sure there _is_ any dealing with Val Royeaux. Unless they’ll be impressed by my ability to chop things in half.”

“Likely not. But if you go to them and speak with them, they may listen. They are frightened. The explosion at the Conclave killed many who would have become the next Divine. You must show them you are not a monster or a heretic. They know only stories.”

Fenris feels a headache coming on. “You want me to go to the Grand Cathedral, walk up to the front door, and _talk to them_?” He’d rather fight a hundred more bears than deal with a single second of politics. “Speaking is not my strong suit.”

“You need only show them you mean no harm. You will need their support in the coming days, or at least their indecision. A condemnation will destroy the Inquisition before it can even begin.” Mother Giselle smiles at him, her eyes crinkling fondly.

“I will go to Haven and see how I can help. I will wait for your arrival.” She gets up and heads towards Cassandra, leaving Fenris alone.

Four hours, ten wolves,  three watchtowers and a horse later, Fenris returns to Haven, and he still feels like he has not slain enough enemies to take on Val Royeaux.

They’d better not make him wear shoes.


	5. Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we get to ~*~recruit companions~*~
> 
> how exciting
> 
> for now enjoy shoe drama, cassandra, and the bad hair day that is lord seeker lucius
> 
> thank you everyone for all of the comments!! i read and appreciated and delighted in every single one and you are all the best!

“These aren’t _shoes_ , they’re prisons,” Fenris growls, glaring at the boots set in front of him. Leliana looks gleeful.

“No, Fenris! These are all the rage in Orlais right now! You see the wolves carved into the steel toes? Normally they would be lions, but I thought…” She pauses, then smiles. “And the leather is made from baby nugskin. Can’t you feel how supple it is? They were made specifically with your measurements in mind. You _must_ try them on before you judge them.” She sighs dreamily. “I should send off to get a new pair for myself.” Beside her, Cassandra snorts.

“We will need to build a new wing in the chantry to house all your shoes, Leliana. The tent you have dedicated is already too much.”

“It’s not a tent, Cassandra, it’s a trunk of them. I only brought the most important to Haven for the Conclave. I have so many more back in Val Royeaux… Perhaps I should send for them?”

Fenris picks up one of the boots and looks the wolf in the eye. From this close he thinks the wolf is probably snarling in agony over being put on a frivolous pair of _shoes_. He wants to tell Leliana he doesn’t even _like_ wolves all that much, he didn’t choose the name, but he’d be lying. He’ll never admit it, but he’s rather fond of wolves. More than people, anyways.

He sniffs the leather, wrinkling his nose, and starts to put one on. Leliana stops him.

“You must wear socks, Fenris! Otherwise you’ll ruin them!”

Fenris’ scowl deepens. “I will _not_.” Socks are even worse than shoes. They’re overly warm and they have the gall not to even commit to it like a shoe does. They’re utterly useless, hateful little inventions. But Leliana hands him a pair and with loathing in his heart he pulls them on, before putting on the shoes.

The fit is perfect, he thinks. He’s not sure, because he doesn’t wear shoes, but they don’t feel as offensive as they should. He wiggles his toes and feels only cloth between them. The wolves glint in the light.

“Wonderful! Now we need only find you an appropriate outfit. You can’t go to Val Royeaux in that ghastly armor of yours. I’m thinking black silk, perhaps, with silver brocade to bring out your markings.” Josephine stands in the doorway, already making notes. Fenris has never felt more hatred in his life. He stalks towards his sword, grabs it, and heads to the door.

“Where are you going? We have to take your measurements!” Josephine tries to approach him, but then thinks better of it once she sees the look on his face.

“Out,” he snaps, and storms out of the Chantry. He walks past Varric, who glances at him and then wisely goes back to his cards. Cullen is training recruits in the yard, but he walks past them too because he doesn’t trust himself enough to hold back in a sparring match. He heads towards the logging stand past the lake, and doesn’t realize how warm his feet are until he’s dropped down to sit on a stump.

He looks down at the shoes and tries not to feel claustrophobic. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but it’s hard not to feel panicked at the constriction. They’re not shackles, he tells himself. They’re shoes. Humans wear them because humans insist on living in the most godsforsaken places in Thedas. Humans like shoes because humans see snow and think ‘we can manage’ instead of ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here’.

He doesn’t understand that, but he knows logically that whatever dexterity he’s gained from remaining barefoot would be negated if he lost his toes.

He hears footsteps approaching, and straightens as Cassandra appears from behind a tree. She nods at him, and then sits across, her shield laid against the nearest log.

“Seeker,” he says, because for some reason he can’t bring himself to be rude to her. He understands her.

“I thought I might find you here. You tend to run off when you’re uncomfortable. Varric tells me this is where you go.” She gives him a look he can’t quite decipher.

“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m simply…” He grasps for words and comes up with nothing, so he sighs in defeat and looks at Cassandra tiredly. “Are you here for a reason?”

“I know all that has happened is quite a lot to take in. But you are important, Fenris. As much as  I think Orlesian posturing is all bullshit, I agree with Josephine and Leliana. If we are going to send you to Val Royeaux, it must look like we think you are as important as you _are_.”

Fenris doesn’t _want_ to be important. He doesn’t want to be here at all. He wants to go back to hunting slavers and killing things and following orders because that is easier.

He laughs bitterly, and Cassandra looks confused.

“It is not something to joke-“

“It’s not that, Seeker. It’s just… I have spent so long trying to run, trying to gain my freedom… Now that I have it, I want to go back to doing the same things I did before. As if nothing has changed except my title.” He shakes his head, feeling anger welling up inside him.

Hawke had fought for him. They’d _all_ fought, and in the end he’d squandered the gift they’d given him. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his purpose.

If he’d ever had one in the first place.

Cassandra gets up and approaches him, something akin to pity or maybe sorrow on her face. “You are not used to being important. You must take my word for it when I say you are, Fenris. I have to believe you are here for a reason, even if you cannot.”

“You are not the type to lie, Seeker. But believing something does not make it so.” Fenris looks away, drawing his knees to his chest. He does not want to appear weak, but he’s losing what little grip he has left. He cannot keep clutching tightly to the same things that kept him safe in Kirkwall. He cannot fade into the background here. There are no mansions to hide in and no dark alleyways.

He does not feel safe. He feels _restless_. Like a wolf pacing its cage, all pent up energy and wildness with no release. His lyrium sings and stretches against his skin but does not burst, and Cassandra still looks at him with pity.

“Perhaps not. But faith is what I have, Fenris. I hope you will find yours.” She leaves him in the softly falling snow. A mournful howl echoes in the distance.

It takes a week to gather the clerics in Val Royeaux, which is exactly how long it takes to commission Fenris’s new outfit. He puts it on with disdain but no complaints, though Varric does give him a sympathetic pat as they make their way towards their horses. The fabric is stiff and formal, the silver jewelry so fashionable in Orlais clinks obnoxiously, and he feels like a Qunari shoved inside a dwarf-sized dress. Still, when people look at him they don’t seem to be thinking ‘ill-fitting’, and he’s not sure if he’s grateful or even more disconcerted.

He notices Cassandra doesn’t change into anything nice. Neither does Varric, though he does put on what he calls his “formal half-open shirt”. Solas wears slightly more fur, and that’s about it. He’s the only one dressed up like an Orlesian noble minus the mask (they’d tried, he’d broken it and then snarled five different ways they could go fuck themselves in Tevene) and he hates every second of it.

The gasps when they arrive are the most familiar thing he’s heard in a while. It seems not even playing dress up will persuade the Orlesians, which cheers him up to no end. It means he might get to stab something instead (and he _had_ insisted on bringing the sword. It was still strapped prominently to his back).

One of Leliana’s people explains the situation to them, and they head across the center towards where a crowd is gathered. A woman in Chantry robes stands on a small platform, loudly denouncing the Inquisition.

“And he approaches! This so called Herald of Andraste! He claims to rise where our most beloved Divine fell!”

Fenris ignores the voice in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Josephine, and snaps at her, “I do not claim anything, woman. I’m just trying to fix the _giant glowing hole in the sky_.” Beside him, Cassandra speaks up in his defense.

“It’s true. The Inquisition seeks to close the breach. We have made no other claims!”

“Enough!” The man who approaches, a crowd of Templars at his back, looks like a total asshole. Hawke would have agreed with Fenris- his face was extremely punchable, and his hair was bad. Fenris knows he shouldn’t say these things so he doesn’t, but the tiny part of him that is always drunk and throwing bottles at walls is smug in the knowledge.

He takes his place at the podium, looks the Chantry woman in the eyes, and then decks her. Fenris rushes forward. Hawke may not have expected much from him, but at least they rarely hurt innocents. Even loud, rude ones.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands. The man simply laughs.

“Lord Seeker Lucius, we’ve come-“

Fenris doesn’t listen to the conversation, because he is seated on the stage next to the woman, examining her bleeding nose despite her protests. He hears ‘destiny’ and ‘mine’ repeated a few times, but he’s busy.

He staunches the flow of blood, leaves her to the other Chantry members, and gets up to approach Lucius.

“So you will not help?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. Lucius only laughs.

“Templars! We march!” They stomp out of the square and towards the gates, leaving awed silence in their wake. Soon, voices begin to bubble up.

“What are we going to do now? The Templars have abandoned us again!”

“Maker give us strength-“

“The Herald of Andraste-“

Near him, Cassandra is gripping her sword tightly. “Something is very wrong. That… was not the Lord Seeker as I knew him.”

“Whatever he was, it looks like Templars are out of the question,” Varric says, and then sighs. “It’s never easy, is it? Just once can’t we say, ‘hey, you want to close the hole in the sky? Me too! Best friends!’”

“Doing the right thing is rarely easy,” Solas replies. “When faced with catastrophe, we tend to cling tighter to the small things.”

“Fucking humans,” Varric states. Fenris has to agree. Solas simply laughs, and Cassandra rolls her eyes.

They’re all startled when the arrow flies past Fenris’s head and lodges itself into the ground. Varric picks it up first, reads it over, and then hands it to Fenris.

“You probably want to see this.”


	6. Glow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter introducing sera and vivienne
> 
> naturally vivienne and fenris get along incredibly well despite the whole mage thing, and he probably hates sera on sight. still, relationships evolve and future conversations might lead to changed minds and changed alliances. 
> 
> it wouldn't be a very good story if the main character didnt grow, after all!
> 
> once introductions of all the characters are done and out of the way, the story will probably settle in pace a little bit and focus more on plot. i have some things planned that definitely diverge from canon, and it'll stop being such a play-by-play of the game. for now, the set up is still happening! once fenris meets dorian, things will start moving into place

“So you glow, yeah?” Fenris has to admit he likes her style. He’d made a similar entrance when he’d first introduced himself to Hawke, and it certainly made an impact. Arrow to the eye, a quick battle- the no breeches thing was new, but everything else makes him almost feel nostalgic.

Almost. Nothing she’s saying to him is really making sense, she’s prattling about something or other, and he has a headache. He can’t decide if he hates her.

“Are you offering your services or not?” He interrupts as she veers off into vague smooching noises and words he’s _fairly_ sure aren’t appropriate, but can’t tell because of her awful accent. She winks at him and does a mockery of a noble bow that endears her slightly towards him.

“The name’s Sera. Me and my friends- That’s the Friends of Red Jenny, think you met them before, yeah? Lady up in Kirkwall mentioned somethin’ ‘bout a hot mage and his glowy elf. Y’look different from the pictures. Think they got your nose wrong.”

Fenris folds his arms and gives her a look. She makes a face back, and fidgets a little with an arrow.

“Anyways, yeah. This whole… sky thingy? I want to help. Demons are bad for business, and I _like_ my business where it is, thank you. What do you say, you in?”

“Why?” Fenris doesn’t think he particularly needs the help of someone who doesn’t know the concept of shutting up. Especially when she doesn’t seem to be, well… offering anything.

“Well, you know what we can do! I’m offering little people, you know. I got people everywhere, yeah. No one notices some disgruntled servant in a noble’s kitchen, but they got some juicy shite to say. That’s what me an’ my Friends do. We help them. Take nobles down a peg or five.”

Fenris can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the idea of it, from what he can gleam of Sera’s ramblings anyway. He knows the power of the servant and the slave better than most.

There’s probably more harm in turning her away, so he sighs, rubs at his temples, and then says, “Fine. But you follow the Inquisition’s orders.”

“Long as they’re good ones, yeah? Great! Get in now before you’re too big to like. So, where we goin’ now?”

She rambles all the way back to Haven. Fenris regrets his decision to let her join immediately.

***

“What a delight! They did not tell us you were an elf! And what stunning tattoos! Very fashionable.”

Fenris is stuffed once more into his finery, and Duke Bastien’s partygoers mill around him making smalltalk. One of them is attempting to converse with him now, her face obscured by the most ridiculous ruffled collar he has ever seen.

“They were not given to me for… _fashion_ ,” he replies testily, and wishes he had his sword on his back. He feels more in danger here surrounded by Orlesians than he ever has in the midst of a real battle. These people wield words like poison, and he is unused to watching his step in such a way. Still, he’s nothing if not determined, and one doesn’t ignore a summons from Madame de Fer simply because they don’t like to wear shoes (at least that’s what his Advisors told him when the letter came).

“Are you Dalish, then? Your accent-“

“Is Tevinter,” announces a man as he comes down the stairs towards them. “The so-called Herald of Andraste is a _Tevinter slave_.” Ripples of shock pass over the crowd, and Fenris growls.

“I am no slave.” He should have figured his past would surface itself, especially in Orlais. Everyone had at least one spy in their employ, and it wasn’t like he tried to hide it. In fact in Kirkwall he’d very proudly displayed it, daring any hunter to come after him.

The ones that did had never lived to regret it.

“So tell us, _Herald_ , do you really claim that Andraste sent a Tevinter elf of all things?” Fenris cannot see his face, but his voice is insufferably smug.

“I do not claim anything.”

“So you admit they are lies! In front of all of us, you-“

“My dear, that is quite enough.” The voice that interrupts them is elegant, composed, and powerful. Fenris watches as she approaches, and thinks he has never seen a mage so clearly in control of herself. He feels no pang of fear, though he could easily compare her to a magister if he thought to. The entire room grows silent as she approaches, in fear or respect or a healthy combination of both. The man who had been insulting him is frozen in place by ice.

“I must apologize. The Marquis is always yapping about things he does not understand.” She pats the frozen man’s shoulder, and gives him a cold smile.

“It does not matter to me. I came here to speak to you, Lady Vivienne, not him.” Fenris doesn’t have patience for the bullshit of Orlesian court, and thought he does not fear _her_ , the magic is making him uneasy.

“Then I would be remiss to keep you waiting, I see.” She snaps her fingers and the marquis slumps. She barely pays him any attention beyond a, “run along then,” before leading Fenris towards the privacy of the balcony.

“I am pleased to see the stories about you are untrue, my dear. The court says such ghastly things when they think they can get away with them.”

Fenris scowls, turning to look out at the Duke’s estate. He wishes he’d at least managed to get a glass of champagne before he was forced into the viper’s pit.

“Why have you called me here?”

Vivienne smiles enigmatically, and places a hand on the railing near where Fenris’s elbow rests. “Great things are afoot, Herald, and I wish to offer my services as Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais. The circle will support the Inquisition.”

Fenris looks up at her, hiding his surprise behind a frown. “So you still support the Circle, then?”

“I think you know as well as I what the alternative is, Herald. Mages wield a great power. It would be folly to turn them loose with no training. The Circle is a necessity that my fellows have _unfortunately_ decided to turn their backs on. It’s all quite foolish.”

Fenris finds himself smiling before he can help himself. “I… admit I was not expecting you to think in such a way.”

Vivienne waves her hand. “The mages have convinced themselves that their desire for freedom is worth more than stability and safety. The events at Kirkwall should have been denounced as an act of terrorism. By deciding to disband the Circles, they have essentially given their support for the destruction of the chantry, and only given the people of Thedas more reason to fear them. Had they thought it through, they might have looked beyond their own selfish desires and realized the best thing for all, mages and non-mages alike, is the Circle.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Fenris replies. Despite constant arguments with Anders, he’s never wanted to see mages _enslaved_. He doesn’t want to kill them simply for existing, either. He just knows that the alternative of the Circle is Tevinter, and it’s an alternative he’s not willing to risk.

“So it’s settled then. I’ll have someone send for my things.” She wrinkles her nose. “I suppose Haven’s rather chilly this time of year, is it not?”

“You may want to pack shoes,” he tells her. Later, he walks by the tavern in Haven to see Sera looking extremely disgruntled with a fresh, even haircut, animatedly explaining to Varric everything that’s wrong with nobility while gesturing angrily at her new bangs.

He tries not to feel _too_ pleased about it.


	7. Vints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introductions and recruitments are finally out of the way! i kind of struggle with writing blackwall, probably because i didnt spend much time with him in my group, even though i did his personal quest. oh well.
> 
> bull on the other hand is one of those introductions i was looking forward to writing! 
> 
> tossed some bastardized latin in there as a placeholder for tevene, since there's not a big enough vocabulary to go with canon. i'll probably throw more in in the future because im a loser and its kind of fun. don't consider any of my sort-of-not-really latin to be official tevene, please!
> 
> next chapter things start rollin

“Ah, excuse me-“ The accent catches him off guard as he walks towards the Chantry for a meeting. He grabs his sword from his back before he can fully process what’s going on, and swings. The owner of the voice jumps back, hands in the air, and shouts, “Andraste’s arse! Watch where you’re swinging that thing!”

It takes him a moment to remember he’s in Haven now, that slavers haven’t come for him since Danarius’s death, and that a Tevinter accent shouldn’t be immediate cause for violence anymore. Not to mention, as he scrutinizes the man in front of him, slavers rarely start conversations with ‘excuse me’.

He lowers his sword and the man lowers his hands, scratching at the back of his head and mumbling something about ‘the boss didn’t mention’ but he clears his throat and interrupts.

“Culpe. I apologize,” he says, grudgingly, and sheaths his sword. “I assumed you were- it does not matter, why are you here?”

The man relaxes a little, and gives Fenris an easygoing smile. “No worries, I’m kind of used to that anyways.” He wisely doesn’t mention anything about their shared nationality. He must know better than to say it to an edgy elf with a giant sword. “I’m not here on behalf of Tevinter, anyways. Sort of the opposite, actually. I’m here on behalf of Bull’s Chargers, a mercenary company.”

Fenris folds his arms and tilts his head. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Then you will soon, I promise. I’ve been trying to get a message to the Inquisition, but no one’s been listening. Do you think you can…?”

“It depends on the message.”

The man nods, and offers his hand. “The name’s Cremisius Aclassi. Our company got word of Tevinters on the Storm Coast. Sounds like they’re up to something. We want to formally invite the Inquisition to come see what the Chargers can do, maybe talk about working together.”

Fenris thinks about this, and then takes Cremisius’s hand. “I never say no to slaughtering Tevinters.”

Cremisius gives him a grin. “Neither do I,” he replies, and gives a vague salute as he heads towards the gates.

The meeting itself is something about a message from a woman named ‘Fiona’. He wants to dismiss it immediately. Hawke is nowhere in sight, so what little moral compass he has is conveniently absent. Still, the meeting ends quickly, and he heads towards Varric next, dropping down to sit across from him.

“How would you like to go to the Storm Coast?” He picks up a piece of bread and examines it for weevils as Varric looks up from Bianca.

“Is that a question or an order, O Glorious Herald?” He grins at Fenris, and Fenris returns the expression, though it feels strange on his face.

“I’m no more the Herald than you are, Tethras. I thought perhaps the grey skies and general malaise would remind you of home.”

They’ve fallen back into easy banter and old habits, and Fenris is grateful for it. He remembers nights spent at the Hanged Man playing Wicked Grace and losing what little coin he had. He remembers bribing Isabela for a loan, and laughter, and warm conversation. Varric had always been the first to pull him into it, and after years it’d become comfortable. He’d grown content.

He realizes now that he misses it, and he misses all of them. Even Merril had grown on him despite her foolishness, and he thinks of his new companions and wonders if this ease will ever come again.

Solas, surprisingly enough, seems like he would make for acceptable company. Fenris does not despise his conversations with the apostate as much as he expected, and Solas has a quiet calm about him that even Varric seems fond of.

Cassandra may never make for good company, their stoic natures lending more to silence, but she reminds him of Aveline, and he thinks perhaps he could grow to like her.

It’s all foolish, though. He’s never had friends. Even in Kirkwall, they were Hawke’s, not his. Bound together by Hawke’s indomitable charisma and drive. What power does _he_ have to bring anyone together?  

“You’re thinking again, Broody. Your face is doing that thing.” Varric draws him out of the past and he looks up, frowning.

“What thing?”

“The pensive, ‘I have Deep Troubled Thoughts’ expression. It’s the same face you make when you step in druffalo shit.” Varric sets Bianca down, and leans forward a little, hands on his knees. “Want to talk about it?”

Fenris gets up, scowling. “Tell Solas and Cassandra to meet us at the front gate. We’re going to the Coast.” He barely hears the soft sigh of disappointment as he stalks towards the edge of camp. He’s being foolish. He shouldn’t let himself get distracted by useless memory. Solitude has worked so far, and he doubts it will fail him now.

The journey to the Storm Coast is made in silence. When they arrive, there is anything but. The waves crash heavily against the cliff face, the rain soaks them all to the bone, and wind howls in their ears. It is a miserable, horrible place, but he looks across the water and imagines he can see the statues of the Gallows welcoming him, and it brings comfort where there should be none. Beside him, Varric’s eyes are fixed on the same point.

They share a look, and then the group heads north towards the coast and the growing sound of fighting.

_He’s Qunari_ , Fenris realizes with surprise. Beside the giant of a man fights the Tevinter from earlier, throwing the dragonskull maul about with ease. They jump into the fray without hesitation. They’ve developed a sort of synergy in the weeks they’ve been traveling together. Fenris moves to the side without needing warning to give Varric room to fire. The warmth of Solas’s barrier feels like a second skin. Beside him Cassandra draws their enemy’s attention and strikes in unison with him.

What he’s more interested in is how well the Qunari fits into it. He calls out a, “Head’s up!” and throws a Tevinter their way, and Fenris strikes the man down before there’s time to process. The Qunari grins at him, swings at his head, and Fenris knows to duck so that the Tevinter behind him can be dealt with.

They make short work of the enemies, and when it’s over, the Qunari slaps him on the back and laughs. “Some fight, huh? Never thought I’d see an elf swing a sword that big so fast! How do you do it, huh? Skipping leg day?”

Fenris blinks at him, and parts his lips to speak.

“Ahh, it doesn’t matter. Krem! Break open the casks!” The Qunari leads Fenris over to a rock, and drops down to sit. “Name’s The Iron Bull. You’ve seen what we can do, you interested?”

Fenris says nothing, and then realizes that the Qunari is letting him speak. He clears his throat.

“Anaan esaam Qun,” he replies. The words come out automatically, and he thinks back to Seheron and then to Kirkwall. Iron Bull just looks at him and then breaks out into a wide grin, laughing.

“Well, shit, didn’t expect that. They didn’t mention you spoke Qunlat. You’re not Qunari, are you?”

Fenris wonders who ‘they’ is supposed to be. He shakes his head. “No. I lived on Seheron for a time.”

Iron Bull leans forward, interested. “Me too. I, uh. Guess I should be honest with you, huh? I’m Ben-Hassrath.”

Fenris knows of them. The Fog Warriors had respected them, but they’d also fought viciously against them. “You are a spy.”

Iron Bull just leans back. “More or less. Technically I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but I figure you’ll find out sooner or later. They’re pretty interested in this whole breach situation you’ve got going here. I’m supposed to send reports back. But if some of my info from the Ben-Hassrath gets passed on to you in return…” He shrugs. “We can help each other out. Plus, you get the Chargers, and you _know_ they can kick ass now.”

Fenris doesn’t see any harm in the Ben-Hassrath knowing what they’re doing. The breach threatens everyone, and to show such an interest in what was essentially an Orlesian organization without apparent plans of conquest was… interesting, for the Qunari.

“You’ll have to approve every report you send with our own spymaster.”

Iron Bull nods.  “Seems fair. They mostly just want to make sure demons aren’t going to destroy everything. I send them reports, you get info, everyone’s happy. We got a deal?”

“Welcome to the Inquisition.”

***

“A word, if you will.” Leliana appears by his side as they reach Haven. The Chargers file in and start making themselves at home, and the Qunari heads towards the Chantry to work out payment.

He nods and allows her to pull him aside. She looks worried, and glances from side to side before going through some papers on the table in front of her.

“I… have a worry. A few months ago, the Wardens of Fereldan and Orlais disappeared. Normally I would not suspect them, but the timing… it is suspicious, no?” It seems as if she doesn’t want to say what she’s thinking, but he knows.

“It is suspicious,” he agrees. He knows little of the Wardens save what Anders told them and encounters with Stroud. To hear of their involvement would surprise him, but not shock him.

People do strange things in dangerous times.

“The others think I am being foolish, but I cannot shake this feeling. My scouts tell me there is a Warden in the Hinterlands named Blackwall. If you could find time to speak with him, perhaps see what he knows, it would put my mind at ease.”

Fenris wonders why they can’t ever send someone else on these errands, then remembers the mark on his hand and sighs. “I will see what I can do.” She smiles at him and straightens.

“Thank you. Let us hope it is nothing. I will let you rest now.”

He lets Iron Bull come with them so that he can gauge his abilities more thoroughly, and because he might be feeling slightly homesick for somewhere other than Kirkwall. Varric comes too, and Solas rounds out the group, Cassandra staying behind to work on Inquisition Business. Vivienne seems uninterested in fighting so much as embroiling herself in the politics, and the mages they have at the camp look to her enough that he wouldn’t want to pull her away. Sera is nowhere to be found, but he swears he heard giggling from one of the latrines.

The Hinterlands have improved slightly under the Inquisition’s watchful eye. The roads are more or less free of rebels and Templars, and the fires have been quelled. They speak to Harding, who directs them towards a lake in the hills, and so that’s where they go.

They meet Blackwall outside an old lakehouse, digging a grave for the bodies of slain bandits that lie at his feet. He squints his eyes as they approach, wipes some sweat off his brow, and climbs out of the hole.

“Warden Blackwall?” Fenris stands at the edge of the grave. His feet are bare, and the dirt feels nice.

“You have me at a disadvantage.” He eyes them warily, but Fenris is used to it by now.

“I’m Fenris, of the Inquisition. Behind me is Varric Tethras, Solas, and the Iron Bull.” Blackwall continues to look suspiciously at their ragtag group, but then nods and relaxes a little.

“Was just burying these sorry bastards. They thought they’d take advantage of the chaos. I wasn’t about to let it happen.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’m only here for answers.”

Blackwall starts digging again. “How can I help?”

“I’m tracking the disappearance of the missing Wardens. Do you know anything about it?”

Blackwall pauses. “I work alone. Don’t have much contact with the other Wardens. To be honest, I hadn’t even known they were gone.”

Fenris sighed. “Then this has been a waste of time.” He turned to leave.

“Wait-“ Blackwall climbed out of the hole once more. “You said Inquisition?”

“Yes. We’re investigating the Breach. The goal is to close it and find whoever is responsible.”

“Wardens didn’t do this. But having them gone when the world’s in need is just as bad. If you’ll have me, I’ll pledge my services.”

“We can always use more guys stabbing things,” Varric adds helpfully behind him. It’s a fair point. Blackwall seems honorable enough, and they aren’t in the business of turning anyone away.

“Then I welcome you to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall.” He’s going to get used to saying this soon enough. Used to the authority inherent in being able to _recruit_. That this group he’s a part of is one that he’s leading.

Soon, but not yet.


	8. What a Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of this chapter is where things start to veer off from play-by-play canon. bit of a short chapter, next one should be longer! 
> 
> i originally wondered what might cause fenris to side with the mages over the templars, and i realized he doesn't need to pick them over the templars. all he has to do is go and talk to them before he makes any decision.
> 
> the presence of tevinter mages would be enough to make him stay. like fenris is going to let them get away with anything. storywise and characterwise, his interactions with tevinter mages are bound to be way more interesting than templars and demons.
> 
> check me out on tumblr at thalassiq.tumblr.com or on twitter at @thalassiq !
> 
> caution there are spoilers on my twitter lmao

“You’re not even going to consider it?” Cassandra sits down next to him at dinner, and gives him a look over her plate of vaguely-meat-shaped product. Fenris glances up from his own plate of vague food and frowns.

“Consider what, Seeker?” The more time he spends here, the more it seems as if the others accept him. It’s extremely disconcerting, how they are feeling comfortable approaching him and talking to him. It’d been fine when it was only Varric, but now the _blacksmith_ asks him how his day is.

He moves the food around his plate a bit, and then shoves it away in distaste.

“Speaking with the mages.” She doesn’t look away, just continues to stare at him. He shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t see why I should,” he replies stubbornly. Why would he show any support for a rebellion he could not condone? Why would he ask _their_ help when the Templars were so clearly the better option?

“I am not sure we can reason with Lord Seeker Lucius. And Fiona has invited us _personally_ to speak with her. Would it not be more reasonable to seek the aid of those who have made themselves amenable to discussion?” Cassandra is losing her patience with him. That’s good. Maybe she’ll decide to stop bothering him and he can go back to being alone.

“I’d rather reason with him than work with _mages_. Besides, would it not make us look more sympathetic to the rest of the people if we sided with the Templars?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I am not sure the people have much love left for the Templars. This could be a chance to set things right with the mages, to-“

“To what? There is nothing _I_ have to set right. They dug their own graves and I am perfectly happy to let them rot in them,” he snaps, gets to his feet, and stalks out of the mess hall.

Two hours later as he polishes his sword and tries to sharpen its blunted edge, Varric sits down next to him and clears his throat.

“Not you too,” Fenris growls, running the whetstone along the blade. It is not a very good sword, and the more battles he wins the harder it becomes to win them. Still, he’s yet to find a suitable replacement, and any offers from his advisors to order a new one have been declined. He may have been working together with them on most things, but a man’s blade was his own business.

“Me too,” Varric says grimly, and folds his arms. “Don’t… cut me in half or something because I’m saying this, but _you need to contact the mages_.”

Fenris runs the stone a little too hard along the edge of the sword, and sparks fly. Varric tenses a little, but stays where he is.

“Why? Why should I give them the satisfaction of a meeting? Should they work with the Inquisition it will surely be for their own gain. I am not interested in giving them more power.”

Varric sighs. “Look, Broody, no one is saying you need to work with them. But you have to at least talk to them first. You’ve seen Lord Seeker Lucius, you _know_ what his reaction was. But we haven’t spoken to Fiona yet, and like it or not closing the breach is more important than politics. Do you really want to waste time being stubborn while demons pour from the sky?”

Fenris hates it when he makes sense. He hates that this decision is up to him, and he hates that he knows exactly what he’s going to have to do. Varric is right, regardless of his own personal feelings he at least owes a conversation to the mages. For the sake of the Inquisition and the breach, he has to see what they are offering.

He growls again, gets up, paces, and then swings his sword roughly into a tree. When the leaves have settled again he snaps, “Fine. But I make no promises.”

“That’s all we can ask for, Fenris,” Varric says softly, and heads off to his tent.

In the morning he goes to the advisors and tells them the plan. Cassandra breathes a visible sigh of relief, but Cullen only looks disconcerted. After he tells them he is going to Redcliffe and leaves the War Room, Cullen catches up with him.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do, Fenris? I’m on your side in the matter.”

Fenris laughs. “Of course I don’t. But I have to. They’re right, the Templars weren’t willing to see reason, and the mages invited us personally. Closing the Breach has to trump my feelings.” He presses his lips into a grim smile. “Besides, if it all goes wrong, I have _practice_ killing mages. The Templars will still be there when we return from Redcliffe.”

Cullen nods. “Then I wish you luck, friend. Let us hope it does not come to blows.”

***

Redcliffe Village is small, he thinks. He wonders how such a place held off hordes of undead and darkspawn for as long as it did. There are still crumbling ruins, remnants of what once was before the Blight, but even with the structures added to his internal map, it is not a very impressive place.

Then again, most of Fereldan has been utterly underwhelming. When he’d last been to Denerim he’d thought of Minrathous and even Kirkwall and thought: _Hawke wasn’t lying. Ferelden really does smell of dog._ Redcliffe Village smells of dog and old blood and burnt flesh wafting from the King’s Road.

He steps over a pile of rotting fish and makes his way to the tavern, Solas and Cassandra and Varric behind him. Varric’s nose is wrinkled as he grumbles to himself, “Smells like Darktown.”

The tavern itself is warm and filled with people which instantly makes him uncomfortable, but he heads towards the back and approaches the elven woman seated there.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” He manages to hide the loathing in his voice. She looks up at him, surprised, and then stands.

“The Herald of Andraste. I… must admit I was not expecting to see you here.”

Fenris glances back at Varric, who just gives him a confused shrug, and then focuses back on Fiona. “Do not play games with me. You wrote to the Inquisition requesting my presence here personally.”

The look on her face doesn’t change. If she’s lying, she’s good at it. “I never wrote to the Inquisition. I… am sorry. It must have been some sort of joke.”

Fenris isn’t laughing. Of course he’d agree to see the mages only to have it thrown back in his face. He narrows his eyes. “It does not change the reason we have come. The Inquisition is seeking aid to close the Breach. Surely that is worth a discussion.”

Fiona frowns, and then looks away, ashamed. “That is not something I can help you with anymore. I am no longer in charge of the mages.”

“Then who _is_?”

“That would be me.”

He enters the tavern with a contingent of Tevinters behind him, faces obscured by their ridiculous helmets, and Fenris feels his blood boil.

“Avanna, Fenris,” says Gereon Alexius, as Fenris reaches back for his sword.

Well, shit. Now he _has_ to stay.


	9. Pavus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> backstory! exposition! dorian! 
> 
> for rambling about this fic and tons of spoilers you can check out my twitter @thalassiq  
> you can also check out my tumblr, thalassiq.tumblr.com

“I’m going to cut him in half,” Fenris snarls. They are huddled in a corner of the tavern, ushered there by Solas after a very awkward introduction. He stands between them and the Tevinters now. Alexius sits at the table with Fiona, his eyes fixed on Fenris, but makes no move to approach yet.

“Normally I’d disagree, but this time I think we should just _cut our losses_ and run-“ Cassandra groans and interrupts Varric with an annoyed, “Not the time, dwarf.” He gives her an apologetic look, as nervous laughter bubbles up out of Fenris’s throat.

Gereon Alexius isn’t the _worst_ possible Magister he could think of meeting. He knows of plenty others that had actively and happily engaged in research with Danarius, but Gereon had never been one of them. Preoccupied with other matters, he remembers vaguely, some arcane nonsense that hadn’t required living subjects or the brutal torture of slaves, so he’d never paid much attention to it.

Danarius had thought Gereon rather the fool. He remembers a few parties where Danarius had strode past, Fenris at his side, like a cat showing off its kill. He remembers even fewer times when Alexius had spoken to them- to him personally, even. Nothing more than an, “Avanna, Fenris,” or a, “Fetch a server, would you?”

Still, it had been a far cry from the comments some _other_ party goers had always made. Alexius had never asked just how far his tattoos extended.

It was simply the fact that he is here, in Fenris’s presence, a reminder of a time that Fenris would much rather slash and burn. And if he hadn’t turned to blood magic then, Fenris can’t be sure of it now. He has no _place_ here. It isn’t right.

“I do not think it wise to start a fight here,” Solas advises, hands folded calmly behind his back. Still, there’s some tension in his shoulders that Fenris is keenly aware of, a tightening of muscles as if he’s holding back from attack but just barely. There’s something familiar and feral in Solas’s eyes. Fenris looks away, and stares across the tavern at Alexius.

The man has aged, of course, but well. It seems the few wrinkles and tired eyes are a recent addition. He slides his gaze over to his son- he had been a young boy when Fenris was in Minrathous. He can’t remember his name, but he’d always been kind. It makes bile rise up in the back of his throat, to think of anyone from Tevinter as _kind._

He wants to cut them all down so desperately that he knows it has to be a bad idea.

“Broody… Fenris?” Varric leans forward a little, looking worried. “Are you ok? No, stupid question. Are you going to snap and murder everyone?”

Fenris forces his shoulders to relax, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “It seems we should find out what he’s doing here.” He gets up, his group gathering supportively at his back, and approaches Alexius.

The magister gestures for him to sit at his table, and Fenris scowls as he does so.

“We’ve come a long way, if I am now allowed to sit at the same table as you.” He’s careful to keep it all in Common tongue, because he wants the others to know exactly what’s being said. It would be so easy to slip into Tevene and lose himself in the past.

He’s stronger now, and he’s _free_.

Alexius appraises him, hands folded on the table, and gives him a grim smile. “Indeed. But Danarius is dead and the Inquisition now holds your chain. I’m told they’re calling you the Herald of Andraste.” They both glance at his hand, and Fenris clenches it.

“Unimportant. You’re stalling- why are you here?” Fenris doesn’t want to spend longer talking to this rat than he has to. It makes his skin crawl.

“The mages asked for our help. It’s a pity the way the south treats them. No better than slaves, really. Luckily, I heard of their plight and decided it was my duty to help.” It’s worded so carefully that Fenris knows it’s bullshit. He fights back another nervous bubble of laughter, and clenches his fists.

“You did not come out of the goodness of your heart. What do you gain from this?”

Alexius looks pleased with himself. “Nothing. Well, there is the matter of the indentured servitude. They’d be slaves otherwise, were I to bring them into Tevinter. But in ten short years-“

Fenris doesn’t let him finish. “So you gain slaves while somehow framing yourself as the savior, is that it? The Mighty Tevinter Imperium come to save the lowly southern mages?” He can’t help the way the anger sneaks into his voice. It’s all he can do not to grab a bottle from the serving girl and throw it in Alexius’s face.

“You put it so negatively, Fenris. The Tevinter Imperium-“

“The Tevinter Imperium can rot,” Fenris snarls, getting to his feet.

Alexius sighs. “It’s unfortunate you feel that way. It seems my mages are the only option you have for sealing this breach-“

“They are not _your_ mages! They are- they _should_ be free!”

“Well now, that _is_ a surprise to hear,” Alexius replies. Fenris stops, pauses, and realizes what he’s said.

“The Circle is not slavery- do not twist my words, _magister_ -“

Alexius stands, and gestures for his men to move out. “If you change your mind, Fenris, we are staying at Redcliffe Castle. I would love to discuss solutions there. After all, you and I both know this is your best, _and only_ , option.”

His son stays behind, mingling near the back of the crowd before breaking off and approaching them. Fenris is sitting again, trying to regain his composure. He doesn’t have time for grown little boys who had once given him bread with such kindness.

The son still stands there, unsure, reluctant, before he sits down across from Fenris.

“I don’t know if you remember me-“ he starts in Tevene, nervous. Fenris glances up at him, and cannot find the energy to summon hatred.

“I do. You have grown.”

The son- he remembers his name now, Felix- smiles and relaxes just a bit. “I cannot stay long. I only- here.” He hands Fenris a note, and gets up again. He hurries to the door, stops. Glances back.

“You deserved better,” he says with finality, and then disappears from the tavern. It pisses Fenris off, because he _knows_. He knows, and yet a little part of himself can’t believe it anyways.

His group sits down at the table with him. Varric motions for the waitress to bring them something strong, and Fenris opens the note, and then laughs.

“What? What does it say?” Cassandra asks eagerly. He shakes his head, and lets it flutter to the table.

“I can’t read.”  Shame burns on his cheeks before he can stop himself. It’s been a very long day.

Solas takes the note gently, and reads it aloud for them: “Meet me at the Chantry tonight at sundown. My father is not what he seems. Felix.” He sets it down again. “It seems you have made a friend, Fenris.”

Fenris takes the ale Varric hands him and drinks, feeling the warmth spread through him. He feels a little better. “Felix was always kind to me,” he says finally.

“You do not have to speak of it,” Cassandra tells him, but he shakes his head.

“No. It seems my past has come to haunt me once more. It would be unfair to expect any of you to walk into a trap uninformed.” He swallows another mouthful of ale, and straightens a little in his chair. Danarius had always complained about his posture.

“So I take it you know this Alexius guy?” Varric asks first. Fenris nods.

“He was- _is_ \- a magister of the Tevinter Imperium. Danarius never liked him much. They would often argue at the parties he forced me to attend in Minrathous. Alexius didn’t approve much of my markings, I think. Not that he saw me as anything more than a slave. I suppose he saw it as something like being especially cruel to a pet.”

“Bastards,” Cassandra adds helpfully. Fenris smiles.

“I doubt you’ll meet a single Tevinter who _isn’t_ a bastard, Seeker. Not literally of course- they all love to tell you about their bloodlines.” He pauses, shakes his head. “I’m rambling. No, Alexius was not one of the worst ones, but he was a magister. A certain degree of atrocity comes with that title. He would sometimes bring his son to these parties to show him off. Felix may have seen me as a pet too, but at least he’d always sneak me food. I wasn’t allowed to eat with the masters, being a slave, so I would starve through the parties. He’d always find a way to get something to me. Out of pity, I suppose.”

“So what is he doing here? Why would a magister have any interest in the southern mages?” Cassandra asks.

“Magisters are always seeking to gain more power. If he’s here, it’s because there’s something to be gained. I am unsure of what. If Felix is offering help…” He thinks of the little boy, and wonders if his good heart had managed to survive in the intervening years. Likely not.

“It could be a trap. We will go, but be prepared for anything,” Fenris decides, and finishes his ale. “Nothing good ever comes from consorting with mages.”

***

They gather outside the Chantry’s doors as the sun sinks over the horizon. Fenris has made sure they are all fully equipped, and his own sword is already in his hand as they push open the doors and head inside.

First thing he notices is the rift. Beyond that, the mage in the middle, who slays a demon, turns to them, and brightens up.

“Took you long enough! Come on then, we haven’t got all night. Help me with this, would you?”

Fenris doesn’t have time to process. He knows who this man is, though only vaguely. One of Alexius’s consorts, or assistants, or boyfriends. He had never been able to keep track of all the intrigue at court.

They make short work of the rift and the demons, and as Fenris heals the tear in the sky, the man approaches them.

There’s recognition, and a little surprise in his expression.

“Well, can’t say I’m not a little surprised,” he starts, and Fenris places the voice. A Pavus, he thinks. Had any of them ever been this _obnoxious_?

“Fancy seeing a fellow countryman here! Except for all of the ones currently trying to kill you, I guess. But the Herald of Andraste, Tevene? That has _got_ to be making the heads at your quaint little Chantry-“

“I am _not_ your countryman,” he snaps. Varric clears his throat and Fenris remembers to put the sword away, because if nothing else it seems Pavus is _not_ here to kill them.

The man blinks in surprise and then clears his throat. “…Right. Anyways, Dorian Pavus, at your service. I remember you from-“ Dorian seems to think better of mentioning where he knows Fenris from, and instead focuses on straightening his robes and fixing his hair.

“Explain,” Fenris demands, gesturing to the space in the sky he’d just fixed.

“Oh, that! Well, that’s nothing, really. Alexius has gone mad, nasty business, and now he’s trying to kill you.”

Everyone is silent. Then Fenris breaks it with a laugh, and turns back towards the door. Dorian just looks hopelessly confused.

“Er, where are you going?”

“I’m going to go cut him in half,” Fenris says with certainty.


	10. Rather Uncalled For

“He’s not _really_ going to cut Alexius in half, is he?” Fenris hears the Tevinter ask as he stalks towards the door, fully intending to do just that. He only stops when Felix appears in front of him, slightly breathless, and then smiles at the sight of Fenris.

“You made it! I was worried-“ Felix cuts himself off, clears his throat, and grins past Fenris to Pavus. “Sorry I’m late, father was being overprotective as always.” Fenris grips his sword but reluctantly lowers it, and steps aside to let Felix in.

“Felix! Excellent. Please explain to your friend here why it is a terrible idea to storm Redcliffe Castle singlehandedly in a nugbrained scheme to kill your father.” Pavus gives Fenris a winning smile that he desperately wants to wipe off his smug face.

Varric clears his throat before Fenris can say something scathing. “How about you explain what’s really going on here? So far all we’ve seen is a bunch of grandstanding and demons.”

Fenris is, not for the first time since the Conclave, incredibly grateful Varric is here. He paces a little in front of the door, and then lets his sword drop with a dramatic clatter. “I’d like answers, too.”

“My father has joined a cult. They call themselves the Venatori. He thinks he’s keeping me in the dark, but I’ve read his letters and listened to the conversations he has when he thinks I’m asleep. They are planning something. I’m just… not sure what, yet,” Felix explains.

Fenris turns on Pavus. “You were one of his pets, were you not? Why should we trust _you_?”

Pavus looks offended, but it’s a little too over the top to be fully believable. Or maybe he just likes the attention. “ _Pet_? I assure you, I was no pet. Alexius was my mentor! We worked together.”

“He certainly enjoyed showing you off like one,” Fenris retorts. Cassandra is the one who interrupts this time.

“Am I to believe every Tevinter knows one another? Do you know this man, Fenris?”

“Hardly,” Pavus responds before he has the chance to. “Passing acquaintance at best. He knows nothing about me. _Pet…_ ” He puffs up his chest a little. Fenris fights the urge to punch him.

“We attended the same parties. From what I remember, you were rarely treated better than I.” Fenris narrows his eyes.

“Nonsense. _I_ got to eat.”

No one moves fast enough to stop Fenris from lunging, his hand phasing into Pavus’s chest effortlessly. “ _Listen here, Pavus_ ,” he snarls in Tevene. “ _Do not mistake me for a docile houseslave. I will rip your heart out of your chest before you have time to pray.”_

Pavus coughs, hands scrabbling against the stone of the chantry wall, and manages to gasp out, “ _I just… got this tailored.”_

It’s Varric’s voice that pulls him out of the moment, and he steps back from the mage with a snarl, hand phasing back into corporeality just as he realizes what he’s done.

Pavus is staring at his arm. He clears his throat. “That _is_ fascinating. How does it work?” He seems to want to step forward, to touch, to examine, but wisely does not. He’s still shaken.

Solas takes Fenris to the side while he’s still in shock, while Pavus watches him from across the chantry. Fenris’s head is light, his chest hurts, his mark throbs with pain, and he is shaking uncontrollably. Solas sits him down in a chair, kneels in front of him, and runs his hands over Fenris before he can argue.

The healing magic takes root, soothes over, and eases the weight on his chest until he can breathe easier.

“That was not wise,” Solas murmurs to him so that the others do not hear. “Your powers are still unstable. I am unsure how they will interact with the mark. My research has not proved fruitful yet.”

Fenris clenches his fist. Unclenches. The throbbing in his mark does not go away. If anything it burns hotter, and green runs through the lyrium veins like fire. “I do not like him,” he finally says by way of explanation, and shoots a glare in Pavus’s direction. The mage just raises his hands innocently and looks away. Varric says something to him, but they’re out of earshot.

“Be that as it may, your safety comes first. The raw lyrium running through your body… I believe you risk hypercharging the mark every time you attempt to use those powers. It would be like five _thousand_ mages all pouring their power into it, not the few hundred we seek. That sort of power unlocked… the explosion at the Conclave would seem like child’s play.” Fenris’s limbs still feel weak and he feels scrubbed raw by electricity that still sparks in his nerves when he moves.

He feels powerless and disconnected in a way he has not since he lost the name Leto. “Is there no way to control it? No way to use it without this pain?”

Solas shakes his head. “I am unsure. It would be far better to avoid it for now. Your body is healing after the addition of the mark. Perhaps it is even adapting to it, integrating the systems, but you are incomplete. Using your lyrium markings now when you are still so unstable would be incredibly stupid.”

Fenris snorts, takes a deep breath, and then nods.

“If Dorian Pavus insults you again, I will set him on fire myself,” Solas promises. It should have been insulting, but instead he finds comfort in the vow. Solas helps him stand, and he stalks towards the rest of the group with purpose.

Pavus looks slightly apologetic. “What I said was rather uncalled for, Fenris. Culpe.”

“Do not make the mistake again,” Fenris snaps. He looks at Felix instead, because he’s less likely to want to behead him. “What is the Venatori? They did not exist when I was last in Tevinter.”

“I am still unsure. It seems they’re a nationalist cult aiming to bring Tevinter back to its glory. I do not know how, yet.”

“I have an inkling,” Pavus interrupts. “Alexius is using time magic.”

“Bullshit,” Fenris snaps. “That doesn’t exist.” Danarius would have surely found it if it had.

“It does,” Pavus replies, sounding grim. “When I worked with Alexius, it was only a theory. We never actually thought it would _work_. But it seems he has discovered the catalyst since I left. That’s how he was able to reach Redcliffe before you, why he got the mages on his side before you could. It’s all about _you_ , Fenris. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Fenris snarls. “I killed Danarius. Alexius does not scare me. Let him come for me.”

“Danarius is nothing compared to the power Alexius has gained. You _cannot_ hope to defeat him without a plan. He has all of time on his side, and you’re… well, a rather rude elf with a temper.”

The others give him a look.

“Well, it’s kind of true, Broody. You do sort of have a temper. And time magic is a little out of our pay grade,” says Varric slowly. _Traitor_.

He scowls. “Fine. Then what should we do? I’m sure you’ve been dying to give me orders, Pavus.”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I was hoping your Inquisition would help _me_. We have to find a way to get to Alexius. The castle is likely to be heavily guarded, and it _is_ a trap. We must come prepared.”

“Let us send word to Leliana,” Cassandra suggests. “She will know what to do. By the morning she will have a plan. We can stay here for the night, and approach Alexius once we know what we should do.”

“I still think we should cut him in half,” Fenris snaps. It is going to be a long night. 


	11. Longissima Via

He cannot sleep. The fire has long since turned to smoldering ash, and the rest of their company has retired to the tents of their small encampment outside Redcliffe Village. Only a single solitary figure is in his view, lit by magical fire.

Pavus. He sits with his back to the tents on a log and reads a book. Felix had returned to Alexius, but Pavus had insisted on staying. _Wouldn’t want to miss all the fun_ , he’d said. Fenris paces unsurely next to the dead fire, his bare feet noiseless.

“Are you going to do that all night?” He glances up, and Pavus has turned towards him. Shadows dance across his face, an eyebrow quirked in silent question. Fenris stops pacing.

“It’s no business of yours.” The response makes Pavus laugh softly. He gestures to his log. Fenris gives him a look.

“I’m not going to bite, Fenris. Believe what you will, I’m on _your_ side. I’ve no more wish to see Alexius succeed than you.”

Fenris laughs quietly. “Did he finally turn you out of his bed?”

Pavus’s cheeks color, but his expression just becomes more determined. “You won’t sleep, and I can’t focus with you pacing like that. Come sit or go back in your tent.” He turns his back, and opens the book once more.

Fenris notices the soft expression of surprise on his face as he drops down to the log, quickly hidden behind a smug smile. Pavus flicks his wrist, and the fire grows larger, warmer, lighting the little area around them.

“I hate the south. Why anyone would choose to live here is beyond me. It smells like dog and it’s _cold_.” Pavus seems almost eager to talk with him. He’s put his book away and is facing Fenris.

Fenris fixes his gaze ahead, and watches a moth approach the ball of fire, then burn up when it gets too close. The ashes fall near his feet.

“Then why leave Minrathous? I’m sure the Magisterium would love to have you.”

Pavus’s sad laugh is surprising. He turns to look at him, and Pavus’s shoulders are scrunched.

“You’d be surprised, I think. They’re not very fond of me.”

“I’m shocked. You’re so charming.” Pavus’s laugh turns genuine.

“You jest, I know, but it still pleases my ego to hear it. I _am_ rather charming.”

Fenris scowls. “You’d be more charming if you knew when to shut up.” Pavus smiles, and turns his gaze out to the darkness.

“I’m a bit of a pariah in Tevinter at the moment. Something about my vocal criticisms with a corrupt and powerhungry government, I think.”

Fenris snorts. “ _You’re_ the pariah.” Pavus looks slightly apologetic.

“I didn’t mean to compare-“ He sighs. “You’re right. I sit here and complain to you about _my_ problems in Minrathous, but I have no right.”

“No. You don’t.” They sit in silence. Fenris should leave, he doesn’t exactly want to spend time with Dorian, but the alternative is lying in his tent, staring at the cloth, and wondering when the aching in his chest will stop.

Every so often Pavus will turn another page, glance up at Fenris, and then look back at his book. Fenris scans the pages but sees no words he understands, and what diagrams there are make little sense. Magical nonsense, he assumes. Perhaps something to do with Alexius’s time travel.

Pavus breaks the silence again, closing the book as dawn’s rosy fingers stretch across the sky towards the Breach.

“Why did you stay, Fenris?”

Fenris blinks. “Stay where?”

“With the Inquisition. Surely you considered running the first time one of them said ‘destiny’.”

Fenris gives him a wry smile. Perhaps Pavus had been paying more attention at those parties than Fenris had given him credit for.

“Where would I go? You can’t run from the sky.”

“Fair enough.” Pavus looks down.

“Why? Would you have run?”

Pavus stands, walking towards his tent. He stops in front of it, and looks back at Fenris. “I’ve never considered myself much of a hero.” He ducks into the tent, and the fire extinguishes, leaving Fenris watching the sunrise alone.

Leliana’s missive arrives with a contingent of spies a few hours later. They are to enter through the secret passageway and take out the guards with Pavus, while Fenris’s group approaches from the front. It’s a risky plan, but the alternative is inaction, so Fenris decides to go with him. He’s only grateful he’s part of the group going in through the front. He hated feeling like a sneaky witch thief.

They’re greeted at the gates of the castle by a guard that escorts them into the throne room where Alexius sits.

“Fenris! I’m glad to see you’ve changed your mind. It was a nasty business with Danarius, but I knew you were a reasonable sort.”

Fenris clenches his fists and resists growling. Instead, he gives Alexius a smile. “The breach threatens all, Magister. My pride is not more important than the world.”

Alexius leans back, appraises him. He can feel the man’s slimy gaze over his markings, on his hand, and bites back the urge to wretch.

“Indeed. We’ve spoken about what I can do for you, but I’ve heard no talk about what you can do for us.” In the distance he hears footsteps, and knows Leliana’s men are moving in. Felix stands nervously near his father’s throne.

“I was thinking I’d cut you in half, actually,” Fenris says, pulling the sword from his back. Alexius sputters and stands, all smugness falling from his face.

“What is the meaning of this? Are you mad, to attack me in my own castle?!”

“It’s not your castle, father, and they know.” Felix steps away from him, towards Fenris.

“Felix… what have you _done_?” Alexius demands. His hands are shaking. He grips at a pendant around his neck nervously.

Leliana’s men strike, slitting the throats of Alexius’s guards, and then take their places. It happens quickly, barely enough time for a reaction at all, and then they are triumphant.

Alexius doesn’t seem to think so. He grips his pendant tighter. Laughter bubbles out of his throat and he casts his gaze about the room, looking crazed. “You think you can defeat me? You think you can defeat the Elder One?”

“We were rather hoping so, yes.” Pavus emerges from behind a spy, looking sadly up at Alexius. “Oh Alexius, what _have_ you done to yourself?”

Alexius’s eyes narrow. “What I had to do, Dorian.” He focuses on Fenris now, who grips his sword tight like an anchor.

“You are an abomination, slave. You were never meant to exist. Not as that lyrium _thing_ , and not with that stolen mark on your hand. I will do the world a favor and wipe you from it before you can stain it further,” he snarls, and rips the pendant from his neck.

Fenris lunges forward, sword in midstrike. Behind him he hears a yell, he hears his name, and feels a hand gripping his wrist.

Then, darkness swallows him whole.

“ _Salve! Salve?? Es vos sanus?”_


	12. What Once was Lost

The dirt feels good under Fenris’s hands. He gathers it between his fingers and drags his nails through it, handfuls of loam. It smells earthy, and the sun beats down on him from above.

He stares at the sky, blinking slowly. Noon, maybe. He’ll have to get up and pack soon, he overslept, and Danarius’s men are likely not far behind. He hears a bird chirping, and watches a thrush land on the knee of the body beside him.

His stomach drops. He sits up, the world coming back to him, and his head spins. Before him crouches a woman, relief evident on her face as he moves. She takes a few steps back, and his heart stops pounding long enough to hear… nonsense.

He can make out a word here or there, as if she’s speaking some strange dialect of Tevene with a mouth full of food. It’s muddied and incomplete. “Cecidit- caelum- was loud-“ He shakes his head.

“ _You must calm down_ ,” he implores her in Tevene. She takes another step back, clutching a basket closer to her chest.

“ _Nuntius_ \- you are- _deus_ \- mea culpa!” She hurriedly drops the basket of fruit at his feet and runs, her toga fluttering in the breeze.

 _Toga_? He remembers going to see plays with Danarius when he was younger, historical dramas about the rise of the Tevinter Imperium. That was the last time he’d seen a toga _anywhere_. The slaves had worn them, he was sure.

He looks around. They are in a field. He can see olive trees in the distance, and wheat, but nothing else. Beside him, Pavus stirs.

He is holding Fenris’s wrist in his hand. Fenris tugs his arm away roughly and stands. Ever a creature of opportunity, he picks an apple off the ground and wipes it off before eating it.

Pavus groans and rubs at his face and then sits up slowly, gaze fixed on him.

“ _Are you an idiot_?” he snaps in Tevene. _“What were you thinking? Visshante kaffas!”_ Fenris doesn’t listen. He’s no interest in arguments when what’s happening around them is far more interesting.

The gravity of the situation has not yet set in. He is alive, he feels reasonably well, and the woman was wearing a toga. He brings a hand up to his head, and when he pulls it away his fingers are sticky with blood.

“Festis bei umo canavarum!” Pavus snaps as he sees it, and gets to his feet. His hands are glowing with healing energy.

Fenris takes a step back, and looks around for his sword. He cannot see it, and feels a strange sense of loss once more. He should really start strapping things to his wrist. His sword. Hawke. A bottle of wine.

Pavus approaches him slowly, the anger seeping out of his expression, and lowers his hand. “You’re bleeding, Fenris. Just let me heal it. I won’t do anything else.”

Fenris watches him warily. “She was wearing a toga.”

“What?”

“There was a woman. She was wearing a toga.”

Pavus just looks impatient. “Let me heal your wounds, _fatuse_!” Fenris doesn’t pull away as Pavus closes in. He feels the man’s fingers running through his hair and over the wound.

“Why was she wearing a toga?”

“You have a concussion,” Pavus murmurs, and lets the magic sink into his skin. It makes Fenris’s marks sing and thrum, and pulls him out of his musings. He glares at Pavus as the man steps back, and feels the world sharpen in clarity just a bit.

“Where _are_ we?” he snaps impatiently. “Transportation magic? If Alexius thinks sending me to a _field_ is going to save him-“

“ _Quies_ , Fenris, I’m thinking.” Pavus holds his hand (bloody, Fenris’s blood, it makes it boil) up and Fenris scowls.

“I do not take orders from you, mage.”

“No, you do not. But I am _trying_ to figure out what happened, so unless you have a degree in magical theory from the Circle of Minrathous-“

“Do you?”

Pavus pauses. “Well, no, but-“

“So neither of us is qualified to figure out what happened,” he says. Pavus gives him a look of pure loathing, and snaps “ _Quies”_ once more.

Fenris takes another bite of the apple and begins to pace. There is nothing on the horizon, and no one approaches. It is midday, and the woman (who is now nowhere in sight) was wearing a toga.

Fenris has no idea what this means but he’s starting to think it’s all bullshit anyways. He ignores the slight feeling of panic bubbling up in his chest, and digs his toes in the dirt to calm himself.

Finally, Pavus speaks. “Right. I have no idea what happened. Toga, you said?” Fenris feels like throttling him. Instead, he stops pacing.

“Yes. A woman was speaking to me when I woke up. I could not understand what she was saying. It seemed to be a strange form of Tevene, once I have never heard before.” He wracks his mind to remember what she’d said. “Cecido- cecet…”

“Cecedit?” Pavus is still as a statue.

“Yes. She said, _‘cecedit caelum’_.”

“You fell from the sky,” Pavus mouths, slow. He looks at Fenris sharply. “Did she say anything else?”

“Does it matter? Do you speak the language?” Pavus’s hands are trembling.

“What else did she say?” he demands.

“She said… ‘ _nuntius deus_ ’.”

Pavus’s knees are shaking too. He drops down to sit. “Of course. It’s _time_ magic. It’s not where he sent us, it’s _when_.”

Fenris paces again. “Well, _when_ did he send us?”

Pavus swallows. “The language she was speaking was Ancient Tevene.”

Fenris laughs. It starts slow, a chuckle, and then rises in pitch until he feels his throat burning and his nails digging into his palms. When he finally calms down, he rounds on Pavus.

“Bullshit. Do not lie to me, maleficar, I’m in no mood for your tricks.” His markings flicker in anger and he can feel them stretching towards his hand. Pavus shakes his head.

“While I would love nothing more than to yell, ‘Ha! Got you!’, Fenris, I am not lying. I don’t know what it means, but she was speaking Ancient Tevene. I studied it, though I’m a bit rusty.”

“I don’t care what you studied, mage. Just tell us how to get back.”

Pavus shakes his head again, slowly. “We do not even know when exactly we are. We do not know _where_ , though if this is Redcliffe, it’s rather changed, don’t you think? I cannot simply snap my fingers and undo years of magical research and development. We need his amulet, we need-“

“Then we find the nearest settlement,” Fenris replies. “I will not wait here for time to swallow me up.” He picks up the basket and heads in the direction the woman had run.

The panic is still there. It’s clawing at his chest now, but he lets it steel his determination instead. He has lived through torture and slavery and been hunted and hurt, but he has never been sent through time.

He is going to drive his sword deep into Alexius’s heart, and if he cannot find Alexius, then he will find Alexius’s _ancestor_ and do it to them instead.

He hears footsteps behind him, and then Pavus appears by his side. He’s looking in distaste at the dirt on his robe.

“Do you have a plan?” he asks. Fenris keeps walking.

“I’ll take that as a no then. Do you know where we are going?”

Fenris walks faster.

“No to that too. Well, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine. I’m so pleased we’re spending this quality time together. I was worried, I thought we’d never get to be alone, you and I. It’s turning out to be everything I’d hoped it-“ Fenris stops, turns, and glares at him.

“Culpe. It’s all a bit exciting though, isn’t it? If we really _are_ in Ancient Tevinter-“

“We’re not staying long, mage.”

“Yes, but-“

“We are not staying,” he repeats, and then begins walking again.

Two hours later they approach a settlement. Pavus has been mostly silent, though he can hear an intake of excited breath every time they pass a statue, a mumble of,”Dragon milestones, fascinating,” as they pass a black winged beast, its stone head facing the sky.

The village is bustling. A few farmers lead Druffalo through the market, a woman calls out what Fenris assumes must be wares to passersby, and posted at the entrance to the small village are guards in dragon masks, holding staves.

Fenris tenses as their heads turn to watch, but Pavus simply strides past as if he belongs.

“I studied fashion history, you know. The Imperium’s taste hasn’t changed much in two thousand years. More dragons back then, I think. And yellow- wasn’t added until later, earlier Tevinters preferred red-“ He wisely stops on seeing Fenris’s face.

“Right. Well, there’s a simple way to get answers. Was it _ano_? Quod ano… We’ll just have to see, I suppose.” He puts on a winning smile, and approaches a farmer, who shrinks back on seeing his staff.

“ _Salve_! _Quod annus est, amicus_?”

“ _Septagentesimo nonagesimo quinto, dominus_.” The man scurries away quickly, bowing as he does. Pavus frowns, but does not seem unused to the treatment.

“What did he say?” Fenris demands.

“I don’t think we’re in Redcliffe anymore, Fenris. Welcome to the Tevinter Imperium, circa 795 TE.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told you itd diverge from canon.
> 
> any latin in this fic is probably very bad since i haven't taken a class in a few years and i'm super rusty. besides, its ancient tevene, not latin, so i can do whatever i want with declensions!!
> 
> whats more interesting that going into the future? going into the PAST
> 
> i loved all of the ancient tevinter ruins you got to see in places like the western approach and the astrariums so here we are


	13. Dominus

“I’m not sleeping there.” It’s dark now, and they haven’t gained much information. Dorian’s Ancient Tevene is rusty at best, and people keep a wide berth from the strange foreigners. They must look like a odd pair- despite the similarities in fashion, Dorian’s robes and Fenris’s armor still looks out of place. Just similar enough to be familiar, but different enough to be even more disconcerting to everyone.

Fenris is feeling much the same. Dorian’s mostly just been excited, but it wore off once they realized they’d have to find somewhere to sleep that night, and had no supplies to their name.

Fenris folds his arms and glares at Dorian. “It’s the only place we have,” he snaps, and points to the pile of leaves he’s gathered under a tree. “Lie down.”

Dorian shakes his head. “I’m a _Pavus_. Pavuses don’t sleep in leaves, Fenris.”

“Get in the fucking leaves, mage,” Fenris growls, but Dorian doesn’t budge. He wonders if he should just knock him out, but decides against it. He needs Dorian, loathe as he is to admit it. His own grasp of Ancient Tevene is nonexistent.

“There’s probably bugs. I’m not getting in the leaves. You sleep in the leaves, I’ll find a nice warm tent somewhere.”

Fenris snarls, grabs Dorian’s arm, and pulls him towards the village once more. Dorian doesn’t complain (well, too much, there is a muffled ‘hey!’) and follows along.

“Where are we going?”

“ _Quies_ , Pavus.” Fenris leaves him near the entrance to the village. The guards are still posted there, and Dorian smiles at them and waves. They just stare and do not move. It doesn’t stop him from trying to strike up a conversation in broken Ancient Tevene as Fenris slips past them.

He returns half an hour later to find Dorian leaning against the outer wall, eyes half-lidded with sleep. The guards watch Fenris as he approaches.

He tosses a bag laden with silver and copper at Dorian, who wakes with a startled snort and fumbles with the bag, nearly dropping it.

“You’re rather rude, you know that?” He opens the bag, and his face brightens. “I take it back. You are beautiful and flawless. Where did you get these?” He picks a few silvers out and examines them. “Fascinating…” He turns it over and over, bringing it closer to see.

Fenris growls impatiently. “Pavus.”

He looks up. “Oh, right, yes.” He closes the bag and strides with purpose into the village, Fenris following behind him. If Pavus thinks it’s strange, he doesn’t mention it. He simply walks into the inn, drops the coins down onto the counter, and asks for, “your finest rooms, _amicus_.”

The innkeeper stares at them suspiciously, and then takes some silvers out of the bag and exchanges it for a key. Dorian realizes too late he spoke in modern Tevene, but takes the key with a smile and a, “ _Gratias vobis ago_ ,” and heads back over to Fenris.

“There’s only one key,” Fenris notes. Dorian looks at him apologetically and clears his throat. “Yes, well, they don’t teach you how to ask for a room when you’re learning a dead language, you know. It’s all spells and manuscripts. Mostly useless, really, I never thought I’d actually _use_ it-“

Fenris takes the key, runs his fingers over the Tevene numerals at the top, and heads to the stairs while Dorian’s still talking. The mage goes silent and follows.

Their room is at the top, and to Dorian’s credit it is a nice room. It also only has one bed.

“Well, it’s no matter. You can…… have the bed……” Fenris can tell it pains Dorian to say it. He starts to strip the bed of its topmost blankets, and picks up a few pillows to drop onto the floor.

“I’m used to sleeping on the ground,” he tells Dorian, who visibly relaxes, before something unreadable crosses over his face.

“Then you _should_ take the bed, Fenris.” He even sounds sincere this time. Fenris narrows his eyes.

“I prefer the ground,” he states, and spreads the blanket out across the floor. At least it’s not stone, he thinks. He’s always hated sleeping on stone.

Dorian is still standing awkwardly in the doorway. He fiddles with the edge of his robe, and then seems to decide on something, because he comes in and closes the door. He sits down at the table, and watches Fenris as if he has something to ask.

“… What is it?” Fenris looks up at him, annoyance growing. He preferred when Dorian was being obnoxious and loud. He’s unsure how to deal with the silent mage.

Dorian frowns. “I just wonder how you’re taking all this.”

“All of _what_? Speak plainly, mage.”

“At this point in time, Tevinter ruled almost all of Thedas. It may not be at the height of the Imperium, but 795 is five years before the blight even existed. Tevinter is one of the most powerful nations in the world. And it is all around you, even this far south. My country- _our_ country- is much more influential than it is during our time.”

“And you think I am going to, what, have a mental breakdown and try to kill them all?” Fenris rubs at his temples, feeling a headache growing.

“I simply thought it might be… hard for you. This is also the height of slavery in Thedas.”

Fenris knows. He’d stolen the coin from a master who’d been too distracted beating his slave to notice. If he’d had his sword, if he’d had his powers- but all he had was a strange mark on his hand and a growing sense of powerlessness.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine. We are not staying.”

“Ah, there’s the thing. I was thinking how we might get home.” Dorian picks up a silver coin and turns it idly in his hands, thumb running over the metal.

“If you have a plan, speak.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I don’t like _you_.”

“Yes, but you really won’t like this.”

“Out with it!”

“We go to the seat of power. We go to Minrathous. I helped Alexius research the amulet- he was going off of ancient Imperium manuscripts. _Preblight_ manuscripts. If anywhere has the information to get us back home, it will be there.”

“You were right. I don’t like it.” He paces, nails digging into his palms so hard they start bleeding, and then stops, turning towards Dorian. “How will we get there?”

“Through Kirkwall.”

Fenris laughs. _Fucking magisters_.

“It will be Emerius now. We buy horses, go north, and book passage to Emerius. From there, it will be simple to get to Minrathous, trade routes were heavily established when Emerius was made the heart of the slave trade.”

“I do not need a history lesson,” he snaps, though most of this _is_ new to him. He’d never worried much about the history of Tevinter. He’d worried more about the petty things, the things Danarius kept him obsessed with.

Thinking of this makes him feel sick, but he knows there will be only one way to travel safely. “They will look at us oddly. Even if we change our clothes, you are not good at acting common, and I am not good at acting noble.”

Dorian takes this as a compliment, he can tell. It’s in the smug smile. It fades after what Fenris says next.

“We must pretend I’m your slave.”

Dorian goes pale. “Absolutely not.”

“Believe me, _mage_ , this is the last thing I want,” he snaps, and the pacing begins once more. “It’s the only way to blend in. I _am_ a slave. And if some ancient Magister gets a hold of me, studies the tattoos-“

“It could change the course of history,” Dorian finishes. “I agree the magisters don’t need any more power, but surely there’s some other way.”

“Why else would an elf be traveling with an Altus, Pavus?”

Dorian shakes his head. “I’m not even sure if I _am_ an Altus here. That could be a purely modern Tevene invention, Fenris. I could be just as classless as you.”

“Bullshit. You saw the way the guards reacted to you. And the others in the village. They called you _dominus_. You may not be an Altus here but you have status. No one will bother an Altus, a Dominus, whatever you want to call yourself, and his slave. We have to appear normal. We have to blend in.” Fenris has had years of practice at moving unseen. Dorian looks inherently uncomfortable with the idea.

“I’ve never been very good at fitting in, Fenris.”

“Now’s the time to learn,” Fenris replies, and folds his arms. “I won’t fall into some magister’s hands because you are too stubborn to act. I plan on surviving this, and ripping Alexius’s heart out personally. If you get in the way of that, I’ll practice on _you_ first.”

Dorian makes a face, and then throws his hands up in the air. “Alright! Fine, you’ve made your point. But I’ll warn you, I’ve no idea how to act like… like a _dominus_ or a master or anything like that.”

Fenris sighs. “Then I will have to teach you.”


	14. Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is very short but making it any longer would have just dragged it out so here u go

The Dread Wolf comes to him in his sleep that night, stalking the edges of his dream. Sundermount looms overhead and the valley shakes with the boom of thunder. The aravels lay in pieces, charred corpses still smoldering, and at the center sits a dragon. Its leathery wings fold back against its body as it watches Fenris. He hears the angry sound of feral howls and can almost feel the claws digging into the ground at the edge of the camp.

He blinks and he is in the graveyard now.  The altar stands before him. The dragon prowls around his back but says nothing. He runs his fingers over the amulet in his hand and can hear Merril’s voice laid over his own as he gives it last rights. The wolf howls mournfully now, calling to him. He stops.

“Finish it,” demands the dragon behind him. Its tongue snakes over his shoulder, fetid breath warm in his ear.

He looks down at the amulet, the last words on his lips, and shakes his head. “Why?”

“You have a debt.”

“It’s not my debt. It’s Hawke’s.” He lets the amulet drop to the ground, and turns to face the beast only to find himself no longer on Sundermount but in his old room in Minrathous. A man stands in the doorway and idly runs his fingers over a desk dusty with disuse.

The man- no, elf- stands tall. His hair is dark and pulled from his face, and on his head sits a wolf skull, bleached white. A slow smile spreads over his lips. He leans cockily in the doorway, watching Fenris.

“Who is Hawke?” he asks, and his accent is foreign. Familiar. Fenris sees feathers in his hair and bones hanging from the heavy fur around his shoulders. The room shifts, phases out, and they are standing in the entry hall to Hawke’s mansion. The mage calls down to him, “You’re late!” and behind him Anders answers the call with a chagrinned apology.

“This is not Emerius,” the elf notes. Memories stop playing, until they are back at the inn. Pavus is nowhere to be seen.

The elf presses forward, grips Fenris’s hand, and grins. “You bear my magic,” he says with pride. “Are you mine?” Fenris pushes his hands away, stepping back.

“I am no one’s,” he insists, but remembers orders and control and dominance. The walls of the inn flicker, and they stand in the middle of the gallows. The elf looks around with interest, touches a statue reverently and runs his fingertips over the notched spine of the bent slave. Meredith stands in the middle, hand frozen as red lyrium spreads through her body. She shatters, and when the red light fades they are in crumbling ruins. The elf sits on a column and crosses his legs.

“You do not belong here.” Familiar, so familiar. Why does his face give Fenris pause?

“I do not belong anywhere,” Fenris says. His sword is nowhere, his body cannot phase. The elf laughs.

“Nor I. Nor any of us.” There is a deep sadness in his eyes that turns sharp like steel. He sits upon the column like a throne, and gestures Fenris closer.

He obeys. The elf touches the lyrium in his skin and makes it thrum with life. Fenris pulls away roughly as panic sets in. Where is Pavus? This is wrong.

“Begone, demon! I’ve no patience for your tricks.” The elf slides from the column and steps forward. He grabs Fenris’s hand.

“It seems you hold the key to my salvation,” he murmurs, and then Fenris wakes.


	15. Arlathvhen

“Ah, there we go. I was worried I’d have to start singing,” Dorian greets him as he sits up, muscles tense. The mage is sitting at the small table in their room, eating a piece of emmer bread slathered in honey.

He offers the plate to Fenris, who makes a face and stands, stretching out his sore muscles. The dream is quickly fading from his mind, leaving only a vague sense of urgency in its place. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he ignores it for now.

“You know they don’t have proper bread here? No wheat! They don’t cook with it! This is made out of emmer, I asked them. Tevinter rules all of Thedas and yet they haven’t figured out wheat is edible!” Dorian looks absolutely delighted to be telling Fenris this. “But apparently they have 40 different kinds of figs, and all of them are disgusting.” Fenris perks up just a little, and walks over to the table. The figs are lying there untouched, so he takes a few for himself.

Danarius had rarely allowed him to eat them. They were a special treat, sometimes covered in goat’s cheese, sometimes honey. He eats these fresh and tries to pretend they haven’t cheered him up. Dorian grins at him, so he scowls and goes to check the doors and windows.

“To recap: today we buy some horses and- what _are_ you doing?” Fenris pauses in the middle of looking at the roof outside their room and pulls his head back in.

“Checking for escape routes.”

“We don’t need any. We’re going to use the front door.”

Fenris doesn’t know why that idea seems so foreign to him. He frowns. “I’d rather use the window.”

“What are you, a Chasind? You’re using the door like a normal person, and we are going to smile and wave and thank the innkeeper for a pleasant night. Now, are you paying attention, or am I detailing our plan to the walls?”

Fenris rolls his eyes, then leans against the wall and nods for Dorian to continue. The mage mumbles under his breath and restarts.

“So we will purchase horses-“

“I’d rather walk.”

“You are _not_ walking. Do you know how far it is to the Storm Coast?”

Fenris thinks of the horse Dennet gave him and scowls. He doesn’t like it, they’re too large and he’s ill-suited for it. His feet have always carried him before, but it looks like Dorian isn’t going to change his mind.

“Fine. We purchase horses.”

“Good man. It should take a week or two to reach the coast-“

“Is it one week or two? That’s a big difference.”

“Will you _let me finish_?”

Fenris waves vaguely, and Dorian continues with a glare.

“So _after_ we get to the coast, it will be easy to book passage to Emerius. Judging from the cost of the inn, we have more than enough to buy supplies. If we run out, you can just…”

“Steal some more?” Fenris finishes for him.

“Well, yes, I suppose. It’s the past, so it doesn’t really count anyways.” Dorian looks vaguely worried for a moment. “Or we could be setting in motion events that will lead to the end of the world. Ripples in the pond and all that.”

“The world is already ending. We have nothing to lose,” Fenris points out.

“True enough. I’ll go secure us some horses then, shall I?” Dorian gets up, takes the bag of coin, and heads out of the room. Fenris relaxes as soon as he finds himself alone, and takes the time to examine the room in full.

The bed is a mess; he’s surprised to find he’d slept through Dorian’s apparent tossing and turning. Something wrong whispers at the back of his mind but when he reaches out towards it nothing answers.

There’s not much else to look at in the room, so he sits down in a chair and eats another fig, mind wandering.

He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to teach Dorian how to act last night. Every time he’d let the man touch him it’d sent disgust rocketing through his system, but Dorian had always swiftly withdrawn his hand right after.

“I can’t do this,” he’d said, moving his hand from Fenris’s back. “Are all masters so… _touchy_?”

“Have you never noticed?” Fenris paced to keep himself from attacking.

“I’ve… never really noticed slaves before,” Dorian had admitted with no small measure of shame, but that had opened up another discussion Fenris had no energy to have.

“Treat me like a possession. Like a doll that must be posed and ordered about. Assume I have no free will of my own, but don’t forget I do or when we are alone I will rip your heart out.”

“Ha! You can’t even use your whole glowy-hand bit, can you? Last time you tried you looked like you’d been run over by a druffalo stampede.”

“There are other ways to make a man hurt.” After that they’d grown silent for a long while. Dorian had been the one to break it.

“I don’t think they’re all like that, you know.”

Fenris had tensed in reflex. “Speak sense, mage.”

“Masters. I don’t think they’re all the way you described. I mean, how would you know? You’ve only had one.”

“That’s one more than you’ll ever know,” Fenris had said, and the conversation had ended.

Now he thinks he should have pushed, should have torn Dorian’s argument to shreds and exposed him for the pampered, privileged magister’s son Fenris knew him to be. But he’d been tired, and he’d wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and forget.

He can do anything _except_ forget this morning. He wants to slam Dorian’s face into the door and show him what it’s really like to be manhandled. Stomaching the touch in public will prove to be a feat he’s not sure he’s up to.

Dorian comes back looking successful, and Fenris stands.

“Well then. Ready?” He reluctantly reaches out, and places a hand on Fenris’s shoulder. The touch is warm, repulsive, and comforting. His stomach flips in confusion, so he simply nods and lets survival trump pride. Dorian leads them out, down the hall, and towards the horses fully geared outside.

They make camp that night off the road. Dorian proves entirely useless when setting up the tent, so Fenris takes it upon himself. Dorian then proves useless preparing the horses for the night, so Fenris sends him off to scout the area while he does _that_ too. When Dorian returns, he goes out himself just to make sure the mage did it right. By the time they are finally ready to lie down, Fenris feels tired to the bone.

He drops down on one of the two bedrolls and ignores Dorian’s protests: “That one’s _mine_ , this one is yours. Mine’s the blue one-“ and is asleep before his head can hit the pillow.

Rustling in the night wakes him. Dorian sits up slowly a few moments after he does, and whispers urgently, “What is it?” Fenris only holds up a hand, glowing green in the darkness. He gets to his feet, and leaves the tent.

“ _Andaran atish’an, da’len_ ,” says Solas, face lit by warm fire.


	16. Shepherd

Fenris feels confined in his skin, all thrumming energy and restlessness that wants to escape, to split along the seams of his tattoos and lift the weight off his chest. Instead it swirls deeper, digs claws into his bones and holds tight, heavy anxiety that makes his heart tremble. He doesn’t let the elf see it, nor Dorian. He is pacing, agitated, violent, angry.

The elf watches him. He’s said nothing else yet, sitting on a log near the dead fire and waiting. Dorian seems like he wants to speak, but he looks at Fenris and knows it’s not a good idea.

Finally he stops. He clenches his fists, unclenches them, and turns to face the mage he’d almost thought of as friend.

“Is this your doing?”

The elf tilts his head curiously, hands folded calmly over his knee, and then gives him a slow smile. “No. I am just as curious as you, in fact.”

The answer is infuriatingly vague. Another point for this being Solas and not some demon. Fenris scoffs and stalks forward, wanting to shake him, to yell, to demand… what, exactly? He doesn’t know.

“How are you here?” he says instead. Solas watches him for another long moment, and then leans back just slightly. The way he holds himself, the way he sits, is different. There is no defeat in his shoulders.

Grim determination, maybe.

“I might ask you the same question. I might know who you were, and what you are doing with that mark. _You_ do not belong here.” Solas turns his hand just slightly, and the fire bursts to life in front of them.

Dorian clears his throat. “So, are we to believe you are _not_ the same bald elf that was travelling with the Inquisition?”

Solas’s lips twitch. “What do you know me as?”

“Solas,” Fenris says, but it’s more of a question, not an answer. He drops down to sit across from him, still tense but reeling himself in. Everything he knew about the elf, everything from what he’d been told, what he’d seen, urged him not to trust the creature in front of him, _or_ the creature back in his time. Yet he’d done it anyways, and could not explain the strange compulsion that led him to it. He could feel it now, whispering in the back of his head. _Trust him. He will help_.

Fenris grips his fists so hard his palms start bleeding, and ignores the whispers.

Solas narrows his eyes. “I suppose it is a good enough name. That is what you may call me, then. How did you come to be in this land?” His eyes fall on the mark on Fenris’s hand like he’s hungry.

“Magic,” Dorian supplies. “Tevinter magic. In our time- oh, roughly 1300 years in the future. There’s a wonder, how _are_ you speaking Common?”

Solas shrugs his shoulders. “It is a common enough spell for those who know it. Aided by memory.”

“So then you’ve already seen how we came here,” Fenris states.

“Yes.”

“Then why ask?”

“I was interested in your version of events, so to speak. This magic is… fascinating.” The way he says it lights up his face. Fenris feels another jolt of fear, and another urge to stay, to trust.

“And the mark on my hand? What is your interest in that?”

Solas shakes his head. “Academic. It is old, and elven. It called to me in my sleep, and brought me here.”

“How are _you_ here?” he asks. “This should be impossible. Elves have not been immortal since-“ he trails off. Solas frowns, and finishes for him:

“Arlathan.”

“So you are _from_ Arlathan?” Dorian speaks this time. He sounds excited. Fenris glares at him.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. It would be more accurate to say I created Arlathan.” Solas looks pleased with himself.

“What is your name?” Fenris demands.

“Solas.”

“Your real name.”

“Fen’harel.”

Dorian has to hold him back from lunging, whispering urgently to him in Tevene. Calm, it’s ok, I’ve got you, don’t hurt yourself. The words blend into each other as Fenris snarls, and Solas- Fen’harel, still sits on the log as if nothing has changed.

Fenris throws his head back and laughs. “Fen’harel! The Dread fucking Wolf! Scourge of the People! The beast who locked the gods away! I know the stories! Bullshit!” He feels frantic and like he desperately wishes the elf is lying, but he looks at him and sees only honesty and a hint of amusement.

The dream comes rushing back to him as if by providence, makes his knees weak, and Dorian holds him up.

The touch doesn’t even disgust him, he’s too furious. It’s Solas who finally speaks, once silence has reclaimed the camp and Fenris’s chest heaves with effort.

“The stories are not true,” he says, danger and anger in his voice. “You know nothing of Elvhen. You cannot even speak the tongue.” Fenris has no argument there. He has never considered himself much of an elf. A slave first, then Hawke’s companion, and now… now he doesn’t know what he is, but an elf it’s not.

For the first time in his life, he regrets it. He stares at a piece of his people’s lost past and wonders if there had always been something missing, some hole in his chest. He doesn’t belong anywhere. Had he run to the Dalish they would have turned him away. An abomination and a flatear. The alienage was no place for him- he’d seen Kirkwall’s, had kept watch at Merril’s on occasion. The only thing his people had was death and ruin and they were not _his,_ he did not _want_ them.

But Fen’Harel sits before him, and he lacks the proper upbringing to understand the gravity of the situation. He cannot slot this elf into the world as he knows it, though his mind struggles desperately to do so. Find a category. Decide if he is a threat, an ally, irrelevant.

Instead, Dorian murmurs in his ear, “It doesn’t matter. You are Fenris if nothing else.” The words wash over him, the tension eases. He pulls away from the mage, and approaches the godwolf as if he were simply addressing any other would-be ruler he’d met in his life.

“You have seen yourself in the future then. You came to us, you offered help.” Fen’harel nods, and pauses to brush a bit of dirt off the fur of his collar.

“And what are you here to do now?”

“I am here to lead the lost little lamb home.”


	17. Perfer et Obdura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm back!!! i never intended to leave this story to rot, sorry it took so long to update! the chapter is a bit short, i'm getting back in the swing of things and writing again, but here it is!

Fen’Harel is watching them from across the camp, but doesn’t seem in any hurry to move the conversation along. They speak in rapid Tevene, but Fenris can tell from the tilt of the elf’s head he understands. He’s listening. _Fenedhis lasa_ , he snarls in his head, one of the few elven insults he knows. Fen’Harel just smiles smugly.

“You know we can’t trust him. He could be the cause of this whole mess,” Dorian says. It’s very reasonable. It’s very true. So why doesn’t Fenris believe?

He shakes his head. “I know that. He _lied_ to me. I do not forgive that easily. But why would he seek us out? Why try to talk to us?”

“Curiosity,” Fen’Harel supplies. They both glare at him and he looks away as if he hadn’t noticed.

Fenris moves them a little further away, and lowers his voice more. “If you’d like to try and cut his head off, Pavus, be my guest.”

Dorian looks mildly horrified. “Fireballs, Fenris. I don’t even know how to _use_ a sword. But that’s not the point. Can’t we just… say ‘look, Arlathan!’ and run when he’s not looking?”

“A terrible idea, I could find you anywhere.” Fenris and Dorian glare at the elf again.

“The point of moving further away was so that you wouldn’t eavesdrop,” Dorian points out. Solas- Fen’Harel- just shrugs.

“Well I’m sitting right here. I see Tevinters still haven’t managed to learn manners in your future. Tell me, have you enslaved any _new_ people or is it still _my_ people? No, don’t answer that, judging by the little wolf, I already know.”

“ _Rude_ ,” says Dorian, getting offended on Fenris’s behalf. For some reason, Fen’Harel’s barbs don’t seem to sting Fenris. If anything, now that he has gotten over the initial shock, being this close to some distant connection to his past, to his people, is… comforting.

“Why me?” he asks softly. It’s been burning in his head for weeks. Months. Of all of them, why was he chosen? It wasn’t because he was worthy, that much was sure. It wasn’t because Andraste had blessed him. So why?

“Why do you think it shouldn’t have been?” Fen’Harel asks.

“I’m not… one of the people. I’m not a leader, I’m not a hero. I don’t know anything about elves, or magic, except that I hate it. But all anyone sees when they look at me now are the things I should be, and am not.” Beside him Dorian frowns, and reaches out to touch his shoulder gently. He shrugs it off. He doesn’t want to be comforted, he wants _answers_.

“The magic on your hand is just a tool, like any other. It was once used to seal the gods away for their hubris. How it came to be on _your_ palm I can only imagine is a result of mine. It is, after all, my magic.”

Green lashes out, claws up his arms, intertwines with his lyrium. He’s furious and he wants Fen’Harel to _hurt_ , because for the second time in his life he’s been used and marked for someone else’s purpose. And then to feel tricked into trusting them. Liking them- loving Danarius. It’s almost too cruel.

Fen’Harel doesn’t seem bothered. “It’s nothing personal. I can’t fathom my own mind when it was done. Perhaps in a thousand years you may ask me and get the answer.” The words don’t soothe him.

“Fenris! _Perfer et obdura! Multo graviora tulisti!_ ” The words manage to reach him through the haze and thrum of magic. He doesn’t feel like himself. The green is taking over his body, but unlike the times before, the lyrium doesn’t reject it. It integrates it, makes the air taste acidic, makes his skin thrum with energy and power. And then, just like that, it dissipates and leaves him.

Fen’Harel watches him with hungry eyes, leaning forward from his regal throne of bark. “Fascinating.” For a moment Fenris can imagine it is their Solas sitting there, reaching out for a quill to take notes, poring over a tome and studying diligently. Trying to fix some mistake he’s never voiced, but Fenris knows the look of a haunted man.

This Solas has that look too, but hidden and faded with time. How many mistakes has he made? How many lives has he ruined, and why?

Fenris decides he doesn’t care. “I don’t know how this time _kaffas_ works and I don’t care to know. We’ll deal with you in our own time. If you’ve come to atone I won’t hear it. If you’ve come to help, then offer it and be on your way.” Fenris doesn’t want to trust him, but he knows that somewhere he can see there is still the elf he thought he knew. A mage who, despite all Fenris’s reservations and hatred, had never treated him as anything but a full person, deserving of the utmost respect.

Out of honor of that memory at the very least, he can’t bring himself to hate the Dread Wolf.

Dorian has been strangely quiet. Fenris thinks maybe he’s putting things together on his own, coming to terms with their situation, and trying to figure out how to work it best to his advantage. In the time they’ve spent together, Fenris has learned Dorian is nothing if not opportunistic.

It’s not exactly a bad quality to have when they’re in trouble.

“Are we done catching up or should I recite the history of our people?” Fen’Harel asks sarcastically.

“That’s enough out of you,” Fenris snaps. He turns to Dorian and lowers his voice again. “We don’t have much choice.” Dorian nods.

“No. And I daresay that mark on your hand is important to him, so I doubt he can kill you so easily. I can only hope that those reservations extend to me by proxy.”

“It’s decided then. Get off the ground and come sit, I have much to say,” Fen’Harel orders them about like he is still a God. Like he is their God.

Neither one of them moves. Not until, with an expression like sour milk, Fen’Harel adds a sarcastic, “Please.”

They get up and sit down. Fenris speaks first.

“It doesn’t matter who you are. You aren’t superior to us, not in this world. Arlathan has still been gone for a very long time. Whatever did or didn’t happen is in the past. As for the matter of the mar- that’s in the future, and trust me when I say you’re nosy enough about it then.”

Fen’Harel’s expression does not get any less smug, but it does get a little friendlier. “Of course. I am here to ensure your return to the future. Anything else might jeopardize whatever position I have placed myself in this future of yours.”

“And what exactly do you intend to do?” Dorian asks.

“I have resources of my own. It is my understanding you intend to journey to Minrathous. That is good. When I have found what I can, I will meet you there.”

“And what do you expect in return?” Fenris watches him warily.

Fen’Harel grins and stands. “Your trust.”

He is gone before Fenris has time to say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: fenedhis lasa basically means "go suck a wolf's dick". the more you know!
> 
> kaffas: "shit" in tevene
> 
> Perfer et obdura! Multo graviora tulisti! : essentially "bear and endure to the end; you have borne much heavier misfortunes than these". Written by Ovid. i imagine this is tevinter's own little version of "keep calm and carry on". dorian's a nerd.


	18. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> similarities are discovered and our heroes bond over how much they both hate blood magic and like fucking dudes. heartwarming.

They take down camp in silence the next morning, neither one of them having slept much the night before. Too much is swirling around in his head. He can’t think, can’t form words. All he knows is a vague sense of uneasiness and anger that is easy to focus on Dorian. He glares at every little thing the Tevinter does- how he sighs softly at their meal of figs and flat bread, or how he stares wistfully in the direction of the sea as if he might somehow catch a glimpse of home, however foreign.

He _wants_ to return to Minrathous and that makes Fenris furious. They pack the horses, kick dirt over the fire, and set off.

Dorian doesn’t speak until midday, when they are stopped near a stream to let the horses drink and to eat some lunch.

“Do you want to… ah, talk about it?” He sounds awkward. Unsure. Good, then they’re both on the same page here.

Fenris just grunts and takes another bite of his fig.

“Because, you know, it would be understandable to be upset. I only just met baldie, but it seemed like you two were, well. Close. Friends, really. So finding out he’s one of your people’s gods- who knew, by the way, still trying to wrap my head around _that_ little tidbit-“

“Dorian. Enough.”

Dorian stops, and then sighs. “It’s only, you do tend to brood a bit. And we’re stuck together, aren’t we? So it might not kill you to talk to me.”

Fenris growls and throws his fig to the ground in annoyance. His horse comes over and eats it.

“What do you want me to say? Do you want me to talk about my feelings?! Because I have none, Pavus. I just want to get back to our time, and I want to rip Alexius’s heart out of his chest, and that is _all_.” So why does he feel so frantic? Why has his chest felt like it’s in his own vice grip for the past day?

He sits down on a rock and lets out a shaky breath, clenches his fists, and tries to gain some semblance of control over himself. He is shaking.

Pavus sits down next to him, tentatively. “It’s alright not to know how to feel.”

“I know how I feel,” he snaps. “I feel betrayed, and angry, and-“

“Homesick?” Pavus asks gently. Fenris looks over at him, and a little of the anger fades.

“I do too, you know. We’re stuck in a strange land, and everything feels familiar but wrong. It’s like looking at a Fade version of our homeland. I know you don’t consider yourself Tevinter-“

“I do.”

Dorian looks at him, surprised. “You do?”

“Tevinter- Seheron- those were the only homes I’ve ever known. Sometimes I even miss Danarius. That is why I am so angry.” How could he miss someone who was nothing but cruel to him? How could he feel _comfortable_ around Dorian, a representation of everything he hated? He felt like he was betraying himself.

Hawke would have told him it was normal to feel confused. It was normal to miss home, no matter how awful it was. Hawke would tell him about Lothering and nothing about it sounded worthwhile but he would speak as if he missed hiding from Templars and he missed the shitty hovels and he missed the smell of dog.

Fenris knows he can’t go back. But he misses the familiarity of feeling home, and he has not felt that in a very long time.

Dorian puts a hand on his shoulder, and he is too tired to shrug it off.

“That’s alright too, you know. Sometimes I miss my father. Even the cruelest men can be kind if they think it will get them what they want.”

Fenris looks up at him, and for the first time since they met, he feels almost… curious about Dorian. He isn’t even the slightest bit annoyed with him anymore.

“I remember your father.”

Dorian laughs, bitterly. “No. You remember who my father pretended to be around polite company. I assure you, that is not the same man I knew.”

“Danarius never hid who he was. He was arrogant that way. He expected everyone to fear him and respect him. He was shameless.”

Dorian sighs, and leans back on the rock, looking up at the sky. “My father tried to change me with blood magic.”

“Change you?” Fenris can feel his blood boil again, but this time it is _for_ Dorian, not at him. “How?” His voice is dark, dangerous. The same voice he uses before he rips someone’s organs out. It’s only a shame Dorian’s father is not there in front of them now.

“I didn’t want to marry a woman I did not love and produce heirs and bring honor to the Pavus name. You’d think I’d insulted the Divine himself the way they took it.”

“Oh, so you like dick.”

Dorian stares at him for a moment and then bursts into laughter. “A bit of a narrowminded view on gender, but sure. Yes, exactly.”

“Why would that be a problem?” Fenris had never caught on to that particular nuance of Tevinter court. Danarius certainly hadn’t cared.

Dorian’s cheeks flush a little. “Ah, well… that is, it’s different, I suppose, if it happens behind closed doors, or if you’re… a slave. But for nobles, bloodline is everything. As the sole heir to the Pavus name, I was expected to become a magister, do as I was told, and bring tiny little Pavuses into the world. As if they needed more than one of _me_.”

“You are unique.”

Dorian smiles at him, a charming sort of smile that Fenris hates but doesn’t hate as much right now, and turns to look out towards the sea.

“So you said no.” What a luxury that must have been, to even feel like he _could_ say no.

“After I caught on to the little blood magic fiasco I said no as colorfully and in many more words than I can utter in polite company.”

“I’m not polite company.”

“I told them all to go fuck themselves and took the first ship out of Minrathous.”

Fenris laughs. It feels strange, his voice not used to laughter that _didn’t_ come from nervousness or anger or some other fucked up physiological response. He just… throws his head back and laughs, and when he is done Dorian just watches him amused, and then gets up from the rock.

“Your own escape was much more dramatic, or so I’ve heard.”

Fenris gets up too, brushing the dust off his pants. “It was considerably more bloody, yes. But that’s a story for another time, I think.” He pauses, and glances back at Dorian.

“… Thank… you. For sharing your story with me.”

“Don’t try so hard to be polite to a mage, Fenris, you look like you’re about to burst into flame.”

Fenris scowles and stalks past him to ready his horse once more, and Dorian grins. “That’s more like it.”

“ _Fatuse_ ,” he snaps.

“ _Mentule_ ,” Dorian returns cheerfully.

That night when they camp, neither of them bumps into the other, neither of them shoots the other a dirty glare, and when they drop down to sleep it comes quickly and easily, and Fenris dreams of home and Hawke and laughter and warmth.


	19. Harmonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: gore & violence & me making shit up about the fade because no one is here to tell me no

They are attacked by bandits on the road the next morning. Dorian is bleary eyed and grumpy, complaining about a lack of good coffee and how sick he is of figs when the first arrow hits the ground near their feet. It startles the horses who take off at a gallop, and Fenris wishes not for the first time that he’d stop losing his sword.

“Just get behind me!” Dorian snaps as the bandits approach. Another arrow flies and bounces harmlessly off the barrier he’s erected, but Fenris doesn’t feel much like letting someone else protect him.

“You can’t keep this up forever,” he says, and then they’re upon them. Dorian backs up, takes the higher ground, and focuses a steady stream of magic at the archer first. It leaves Fenris to deal with three large, brutish looking men on his own.

He doesn’t need to speak whatever backwoods dialect of Ancient Tevene they’re growling to know a threat when he hears one. He ducks when the largest one swings his axe, and grabs the wrist of another who gets too close with a dagger that’s far too blunt and impractical to have been much use. Without thinking, as he’s done a thousand times before, he phases his hand into the bandit’s heart.

Green fills his vision. In the distance he can hear Dorian shout, but when he blinks he finds the world has changed.

They move as if in slow motion, the air hazy. Strange ghostly spires erupt from the ground, overlaid with rocks and grass. The sky is purple, then blue, then purple again, and all around him he can feel the wisps of magic.

Dorian is glowing golden and bright and beautiful. The bandit in front of him is red, flickering, struggling, and then a tiny spot of green spreads from Fenris’s hand through the bandit’s chest and the light explodes.

All he sees is red. The haze is gone, the spires crumbled. The sky is blue once more, and he can vaguely hear some screaming. His face is wet. When he looks, he notices with grim disconnect that a rage demon is ripping one of the bandits limb from limb. He’s too stunned to move. He doesn’t even realize he’s covered in blood and bits of bodies until the demon finishes its work and Dorian is running towards him, shouting at him to get away.

The demon doesn’t move, and so neither does he. They stand in a circle of destruction and viscera and Fenris looks into soulless eyes and hears a voice whispering in the back of his mind, until Dorian rips him away and freezes the demon solid, chest heaving with overexertion.

“What in Andraste’s name do you think you were _doing_ , you daft, unimaginably stupid-“ Fenris just looks down and brushes a bit of brain off his shoulder, and then collapses.

***

When he opens his eyes again the stars twinkle overhead, and he is no longer covered in guts. In fact, he’s not wearing his armor at all, instead dressed in what he can only assume is one of Dorian’s undershirts. He sits up slowly, head throbbing, and looks around.

The horses are there, tied up for the night and munching on apples. They are somewhere near a stream, but he knows they couldn’t have traveled that far with him unconscious. He’s reasonably sure no more than half a day has passed.

Dorian sits with his back to Fenris near a fire, shoulders tense and back rigid. Fenris stands and slowly walks over to him in nothing but an oversized shirt and his black under-armor leggings. He feels oddly bare and light. He sits down next to the mage who startles out of his thoughts.

The tension in Dorian’s shoulders dissipates.

“Oh, good. There you are. Rather thought I’d be lugging you all the way into the future.” He looks away and Fenris is surprised to find he can read the mage’s body language. He is relieved, and concerned, and upset.

“I… apologize for making you take care of me.” It’s as close as he can get to gratitude. Any more emotion and he’ll start to feel uncomfortable- he already is, but at least it’s bearable right now.

Dorian scowls. “ _Fatuse_! Do you know how worried I was? Why would you try to use the lyrium, _why-”_ Dorian cuts himself off with a sigh of frustration and leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“Next time you decide to do that, my suggestion is _don’t_.”

“I’m not sure what it is I did.” Fenris stares down at the mark on his hand but he still feels distant, disconnected and floating. When he moves he’s surprised at how light he feels, at how little weighs him down, and he knows it can’t just be the missing armor.

“What it looked like was you summoned a rift _inside_ someone else and pulled a demon through to the other side. You weren’t even… solid, it was like you were only half there.”

Fenris doesn’t really process the words. Instead he only notices how differently Dorian is speaking to him. There’s no grandstanding, no drama, no cockiness or surety to his words. He is quiet, and concerned. Fenris reaches out to touch his wrist to assure himself the mage is real, not some trick of the Otherworld or wherever he’d been floating before reality had literally exploded all over him.

Dorian stiffens, stares down at Fenris’s hand, and then slowly looks away. “Yes, well-“ he cleared his throat. Fenris slid his hand up to Dorian’s forearm. Why was he so warm?

“You were golden,” Fenris tells him, because he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s all he can remember now. That beautiful golden light, surrounding Dorian, covering him, swirling through the air in graceful arcs as he had cast his spells.

“Glad we’ve established you are now crazy,” Dorian says awkwardly.

Fenris realizes what he’s doing, and quickly pulls his hand  away. “Culpe. I don’t know what I- it doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head and clears his mind of the image.

“Where did you go, when you weren’t really there?” Dorian is half academic curiosity, half quiet reverence for a magic he doesn’t yet understand.

“I think it was the Fade. But I wasn’t really there, any more than I was in reality. I was in _both_ , I could see them overlaid. I could see the spirits of the bandits and the spirits of the Fade as if they existed in the same reality. As if I existed there too. It was…” He didn’t want to say beautiful, because magic this dangerous could not be beautiful. What he had done was wrong, and worrying, and he wondered if it made him an abomination too.

Anders would have been so smug.

“We know the mark is a gateway to the Fade,” Dorian says beside him. There is a light in his eyes as if he’s been faced with an exciting new puzzle. He scrambles in his pack for some paper and starts to write rapidly. “Describe what it felt like- what did it _look_ like? This is fascinating-“

“Pavus.”

“The Fade is all around us but it should be impossible to access from the physical plane- you were _inside_ the fade and outside it at the same time-“

“ _Pavus_.”

“Perhaps it has something to do with how the lyrium and the mark interact? You can exist in both because of the unique properties of your tattoos-“

“Dorian!”

“What!” Dorian looks up at him, pausing in the middle of a sentence.

“Where did you put my armor?”

Dorian waves vaguely in the direction of the stream, where the armor has been laid out to dry on a nearby rock after being scrubbed of blood. It wasn’t the first time he’d been soaked by it, but it was the first time he’d caused someone to explode. He gets up and heads over to inspect it as Dorian keeps writing, muttering to himself and taking notes and making calculations with an annoyingly endearing look on his face.

When he is satisfied, he comes back and sits down, and offers Dorian a fig. The mage gives it a look of pure loathing and then goes back to his notes.

Fenris laughs, eats it, and stares into the fire. He isn’t sure what his little excursion into the fade had meant. He isn’t sure how he’d _summoned a demon_ and that was the most worrying thing. Would he do it by accident again? Would he open new rifts?

Maybe he should be locked up with the mages, if he had this power at his fingertips now. It wasn’t right, and it was _frightening_. He’d never felt more disconnected to his own body and himself, and he’d never been more unsure of himself. Even leaving Danarius was easier than this.

“You’ll learn to control it, you know.” Dorian’s voice shakes him out of his thoughts. The young mage has put his papers away and is watching Fenris with a soft and unreadable look on his face.

“Will I?”

“You are the most stubborn, determined, and bullheaded person I have ever met.”

“Those all mean the same thing.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “If you don’t want it to control you, then it won’t. Of that I am sure, Fenris.” The words settle around his shoulders like a warm blanket. He lets out a soft sigh, and looks back at the fire, and nods.

“You are… not as terrible a companion as I previously thought,” he admits, a little grudgingly. Dorian just laughs.

“I am incredibly charming, Fenris. Even you can’t resist my good looks and grace.” Fenris thinks about Dorian swathed in golden light with fire in his eyes and for a moment forgets how homesick he is.

Only a moment though. Fenris catches himself before he lets the thoughts get any further, standing furiously. He ignores the confusion on Dorian’s face as he stalks over to the bedroll once more and curls up inside the soft furs. He doesn’t speak to Dorian the rest of the night, but falls asleep in his shirt, surrounded by his scent, comforted and furious.

He doesn’t dream of Hawke that night. All he sees is warm golden light.


	20. The Waking Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back! don't worry, i promise i haven't forgotten this fic! progress is a little slow right now but i definitely haven't abandoned this! we're finally getting into the heart of the story, which is really about fenris and his relationship with others, not just dorian. i want to explore his interactions with all of the characters, and i think they're all equally important to who he is and who he'll become as the inquisitor!
> 
> anyways, enjoy the chapter!

The next morning Fenris’s whole body aches like burning. He lifts an arm up into the air out of sheer stubbornness, offended at his body’s unwillingness to cooperate. When it makes him hiss he drops his hand quickly, and decides to try something a little less complicated.

Wiggling his toes doesn’t cause any undue stress. Tensing his calves is trying but bearable. He even lifts a leg and while his thighs scream at him, it’s not the worst he’s ever had. All things considered, when he puts all his body parts together and assesses them as a whole, he’s probably a mess. Taking things one muscle at a time, though: that he can handle.

Dorian is still sleeping when he finally manages to sit up, and Fenris doesn’t know if he feels relief or… he just doesn’t know. There’s a heavy cloud hanging in the air of all the words still unsaid, things he doesn’t think he could articulate if he tried, and honestly he doesn’t really want to anyways. Things like, ‘Why am I not more annoyed with you?’ and ‘I know objectively you’re unbearable and terrible and a stupid _fatuse_ idiot, so what’s up with me not wanting to punch you anymore?’ Fenris isn’t good at introspection. He’s good at punching things, and murdering slavers, and apparently summoning demon rifts from the Fade to explode his enemies.

Varric would have a lot of things to say about this, and some of them might even be helpful. Isabela… well, he’d never much talked with her, but she’d always had a way of making him feel better anyways. Hawke would know what to do, because Hawke always knew what to do. He finds it strange that thinking about the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t make his gut clench painfully like it usually does. Instead, there’s a minor irritation, a bad taste in his mouth, and a resigned sense of wrongness.

Would Solas know? This is his area of expertise. Solas would not be surprised to hear of Dorian bathed in golden light. He might know what it means. Then again, Solas was the Dread Wolf Fen’harel and he would absolutely tell Fenris to use this power to become an abomination and make the shems of the world bow at his feet, so Solas wouldn’t be a good person to talk to about this either.

That’s it, then. He has to think critically about _himself_ , and it makes him incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn’t think about why he does things, he just does them because he’s angry, or scared (some small part of him insists that he’s _never scared_ ), or because here’s a sword, there’s a slaver, what else is there to think about?

Dorian doesn’t fit into categories; not the ones Fenris is used to, at least. Slaver. Magister. Evil. Target. Fenris is very good at categorizing the people around him, because he has to be. He has to know when he ducks into a house whether the owner is likely to call for help or attack him or help him (and he rarely banks on the helping bit). He has to look in a crowd and pick out the ones that will try to kill him, the ones that are slave hunters in disguise. Dorian, however…  he muddies the boundaries.

He’s a Tevinter. That should be strikes one, two, and three. There’s no more discussion, is there? He’s Tevinter. And warm, and golden, and bright, and he draws everyone into his orbit effortlessly.

_He’s a lot like Hawke_ , Fenris thinks, and feels like he’s betrayed him, but the thought won’t leave. _Charming. Brave. Never knows when to shut up._ Hawke had always leapt first into battle, yes, but he’d also had such a deep compassion for others, a burning love for the entire world that kept stomping him down. Every time he fell he’d pick himself back up and laugh, and _kaffas_ but Fenris admired that about him. He’d watched in silent awe as Hawke took hit after hit. His brother joining the Templars. Losing his mother. And even after that, when Fenris thought he’d a reason now, to believe, to hate magic the way Fenris did, his indomitable spirit had just kept going. Still fighting for what he thought was _right_.

Dorian is like that too, maybe. Not the same- Dorian is softer, pampered, ignorant and sheltered. But Tevinter has left its marks on the mage in a less physical but no less indelible way, shackles of family and expectations and betrayal Fenris can read in the tense of his shoulders when he looks at Alexius, when he speaks passingly of his father. Dorian could be angry, the way Fenris is angry. Instead, he makes a joke, and he keeps going. He keeps believing in a better tomorrow, telling Fenris all about what he wants, what he dreams. A Tevinter that even Fenris might stomach, but firmly believes will never happen, because some things aren’t meant to be fixed but thrown out.

Dorian is a puzzle and Fenris is afraid what he’ll discover when he puts together all the pieces. He lets out a soft snort of laughter, drawing his knees to his chest and ignoring the protesting surge of ache. He’s already abandoned most of his principles since starting this Godsforsaken quest. What integrity did he really have left at this point, to insist he was so much better than Dorian by nature of what he lacked? What else could he call the mark on his hand but magic, thrust on him the same way as the tattoos.

It’s ridiculous. It hurts to think about. He wants to throw a rock at Dorian’s head but he’s not sure it’ll make him feel  better. Instead he steels his expression, stands, and gives Dorian a little kick as he walks towards the river to freshen up.

“We need to leave soon,” he says, and his voice is even and calm. Good. He doesn’t need his body betraying him, doesn’t need Dorian knowing how weak he is right now. He’ll just set his jaw and get on this _kaffa_ horse and he’ll ride to the Waking Sea. He’ll protect Dorian, not because he cares or because it’s some ingrained duty, but because Fenris needs Dorian to get back home, and it’s the practical thing to do.

Dorian just groans exaggeratedly and stretches on his bedroll. “Can’t even wake a man up gently, can you? No ‘good morning Dorian’ or ‘do you want some breakfast-‘” he’s cut off when a well aimed fig hits him in the face, and the expression makes it well worth the provocation. Fenris turns away, hiding a smile, and starts saddling up the horses. He’s learned fast, though unwillingly, and despite the aches and pains by the time Dorian has actually managed to sit up and get dressed, Fenris is ready to leave.

He leans against the nearest boulder, arms folded, and watches Dorian impatiently.

“You shouldn’t sleep without some form of armor,” he tells him. Dorian waves his hands with a vague ‘pff’.

“It’s uncomfortable  and interferes with my beauty sleep.”

“It doesn’t matter. If we’re attacked in the night and you’re vulnerable-“

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to protect me, won’t you?” Dorian gives him a smarmy and infuriating smile, and doesn’t even protest when he’s hit in the face with another fig. Fenris growls and climbs onto his horse.

“Get your staff, mage, and let’s go.”

Dorian is in a good mood as they set out. He’s come up with some silly theory about the dragon masks he saw the guards in the earlier town wearing and he’s now animatedly explaining the supposed anthropological function of them. Fenris tunes it out because he could not give less of a _kaffas_ about Ancient Tevinter _anything_ , but doesn’t tell Dorian to stop. The gentle timbre of his voice is soothing in the warm early morning air, and helps ease a little more of the tension from Fenris’s shoulders.

There are no attacks. Birds sing in the trees, and the closer they get to civilization, the nicer the road becomes and the busier it becomes. They pass merchants heading to and from the city, farmers bringing in crop and guard patrols that make everyone go silent and bow their heads as they pass. No one seems to pay much mind to Fenris or Dorian, especially since Fenris is careful to keep his horse a few steps behind. Subservient. The only way it doesn’t rankle him too much is knowing it’s all fake, and knowing that Dorian is likely even more terrified of him today than yesterday.

He keeps trying to talk about The Incident (this is what Fenris has dubbed it in his mind), but Fenris shuts him down at every turn. Dorian runs out of smug ways to mention the word ‘golden’ and quickly loses steam on the demon puns, so he switches to talking about the fashion they see as they pass it. Fenris is too tired to tell him he could not care less about it, and so he lets Dorian’s comforting voice drone on.

Their first view of the city comes as they reach the top of a hill and see the Waking Sea sprawled in front of them, a vast expanse of tumultuous blue that crashes against the cliffs edge. The city is built precariously on an island, tall and forboding, a steady stream of people trickle from the mouth of the bridge leading in. They’re forced to dismount as they reach the gates, the slick cobblestones causing their horses to protest and stumble. The guards barely look at them as they pass, and soon they’re swallowed up into the tall spires of a city that died long before either of them had been born.

He wonders what it’s called, wonders if when walking on the Storm Coast he ever wandered across its remnants beneath the ground, or if there’s even anything left of it. He knows great cities crumbled and fell in the years after the Blight, but it’s strange to look at a place like this, tall and dense and _real_ , and know that it does not last. Then he remembers it’s a _Tevinter_ city and so it’s perfectly ok that it’s crumbled to ruin, and he hopes it’s rotting at the bottom of the sea somewhere.

Dorian is uncharacteristically quiet as they navigate their way towards the nearest inn. Fenris stays outside and waits while Dorian organizes things, and when he comes back with a room key Fenris gets to work putting the horses in the stable. There’s a stable hand there to help but he ignores them out of distrust.

Dorian leads them to their room (another single, another night on the floor he supposes) and sits down heavily on the bed with a dramatic sigh.

Fenris scowls.

“Alright, mage. Out with it. You’re moping.” He doesn’t want to have to deal with this for the rest of the night, so best to just cut to the chase now. Lance it out like an infection.

“All of Tevinter, everything it once was. All of this is destroyed, because my ancestors couldn’t keep bloody well out of it.”

Fenris rolls his eyes, dropping to a chair and starting to undo his armor. He needs a break for a while, give his sore muscles a rest, and anyways he’s just as deadly without it as he is with. “Rich tits always try for more than they deserve,” he says, quoting the wise Sera who is probably somewhere in the future unbalancing Cullen’s desk or setting something on fire. His chest aches a little and he pretends that he _doesn’t_ miss a girl he’d much rather fight than have a conversation with.

Dorian just looks confused. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just something a… friend said to me.”

“You have those?”

Fenris shoots him a glare, and lets his armor drop to the floor with an uncaring thunk. He’s too tired. He wiggles his feet and stretches his legs out, and waves a hand dismissively at Dorian.

“You can go explore, mage. I’m sure you’re dying to see what your countrymen built on the backs of slaves.”

Dorian’s expression darkens more, and he shakes his head. “So you think it’s a good thing Tevinter fell? Because what you have in the South now is _so_ much better than that?”

Fenris sighs. “No. It’s not better. But just because it’s not better doesn’t make what Tevinter is still doing forgiveable. You can’t just point your finger at Kirkwall and go, ‘see? Tevinter’s not like that!’ as if it forgives all the unspeakable things that your countrymen do to m- to slaves every day.” Dorian looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment of silence realizes he has nothing to say in his defense.

“I never really thought about it,” he admits quietly, spreading his fingers out along the quilt. Fenris watches them, watches how Dorian gathers the fabric closer towards him as if it will somehow comfort him.

“No. I don’t suppose you did,” Fenris replies, and doesn’t mean to sound so bitter.

“But it’s _not_ as if the South is much better, you know. Maybe they’re both deserving of hatred.”

“The world is broken. All we can do is wade through the shitand keep going,” he says, word wrapping around the foreign curse with a little quirk. He wonders how long Hawke’s words will keep echoing from his lips like a prayer, or if the soft tug in his heart has faded, and why.

Maybe it’s just distance. Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s because Hawke will never look at him the way he looks at that maleficar Anders.

“I don’t believe that,” Dorian says vehemently. Fenris looks up, frowning.

“No?”

“No.” Dorian leans forward a little, fixing Fenris with an intense gaze. “I believe there is still something good out there. There’s still hope, and light, and something worth saving. There’s no point in going on if there’s nothing left to live for, Fenris. Call it naïve if you will, but I _love_ the world, and I want nothing more than to see it thrive.”

Fenris snorts. “You are naïve, Dorian,” but the words don’t sound as caustic as he wants them to.

“Maybe. But at least when we get back home, I’ll know what I’m fighting for. Do you?”

Fenris goes to bed that night with the question still in his head, crashing off his skull and echoing in the darkness. He still doesn’t know the answer.


	21. Lost

“ _I know what I’m fighting for. Do you?”_ He doesn’t. He sits on the roof of the inn, feet dangling over the edge as the night breeze blows cool against his skin. This close to the water he can taste the salt in the air, smell the ocean. It’s comforting. Smells like Kirkwall. Par Vollen. Right now it’s a welcome distraction from his thoughts, because a certain _fatuse_ has got him questioning.

It pisses him off. Dorian gets under his skin and stays there, pulling up bad memories, secret fears and little lies he tells himself and others. He knows he’s not a leader. Why does he have to fight for anything, anymore?

Before… before all this, he’d fought for Hawke. But Hawke was out of his reach now, taking on different burdens with that maleficar by his side. Fenris can’t fight under his banner anymore.

The Inquisition, then? But he doesn’t fit in there. It doesn’t feel right, or comfortable yet, and he’s not sure if it’s something wrong with them, or because he’s inherently uncomfortable everywhere; even in his own skin. Varric is there. Solas. Cullen. Cassandra. They’re all fighting for something.

Varric is fighting to right his and his brother’s wrongs. Fenris can understand that. Solas fights for knowledge. Maybe power. Even that is understandable. Cullen fights for duty, but Fenris doesn’t have anyone to be dutiful to anymore.

Cassandra… she fights because it’s the right thing to do, and she can’t for a moment think of doing anything else. Fenris doesn’t have the same strong moral compass. He’s done things he’s not proud of to survive.

Survival isn’t enough, anymore. It just leaves him feeling empty and hollow. He wants to _live_. He’s just not sure how.

A clatter beside him startles him out of his thoughts, as he watches Dorian try helplessly to climb up from the window onto the roof.

“Oh, honestly! Can’t you choose a more practical place to brood, I’m going to scratch my- oof!” Fenris grabs his hand and pulls him up. Dorian looks a little surprised at his strength, and gives his forearm an appraising look, before patting it awkwardly and sitting down.

He clears his throat. Smoothes his hair down. Adjusts his mustache. Fenris just watches it all in silence, waiting for an explanation.

“Right. Well, it occurred to me that maybe me saying what I did to you might have been a little cruel. I don’t usually make a habit of considering the consequences of my actions, but you’ve been up here for an hour and I just can’t let you sigh mournfully any longer.”

Fenris lifts an eyebrow. Dorian’s cheeks flush a little.

“Look, it’s just- you’re impossible to talk to, you know that? I _am_ trying here, throw me a bone.”

“I would have to cut it off you first in order to throw it.”

“Ok, well, keep your hands away from me you scary scary man.”

Fenris laughs, and sits down next to him. “Are you trying to apologize?”

Dorian huffs. “Nonsense. Pavuses never apologize. I was just… you know, ah. Telling you that maybe it’s ok. If you haven’t found what you’re fighting for yet.” Fenris frowns and looks away, gaze falling out over the still night.

“That _is_ what you’re brooding about, isn’t it? Don’t lie, you’re painfully transparent.” Dorian is staring right at him when he turns his head back. Their eyes meet, and it’s Dorian who finally looks away. The flush from his cheeks hasn’t left yet. Did he maybe find a stash of wine somewhere?

“…Yes.” Maybe it feels a little good to admit it. Tell someone else about his thoughts because he certainly can’t make any sense of them. It’s all _kaffas_.

“But you seem like a man with a purpose, am I right? You fought for something once.” Dorian seems eager to talk to him, his eyes lit up. Hopeful.

Fenris can’t help but fan the flames. “When I was a slave, it was to serve Danarius. When I ran, it was to escape him. Then it was about serving Hawke.” His companion perks up a little at the mention of the name, but says nothing. “Then hunting slavers. And now I am here, and everyone tells me what I should be fighting for, but none of it feels… right.”

There’s silence, for a while. Fenris almost thinks Dorian has fallen asleep, or has decided he’s a lost cause and there’s nothing worth saying. When the altus finally speaks, it’s very softly.

“Have you ever fought for yourself?”

Fenris doesn’t know what to say. For a long moment he’s stunned, because it has never occurred to him: fighting for himself. Hadn’t he been doing that? But fighting for survival was different. He had no plans for the future, he had nothing he wanted. He was completely reactionary- things happened, he acted, and he never did anything requiring more forethought than ‘if I kill them, they’ll leave me alone’.

“I’ll take your silence as a no, then,” Dorian continues, and frowns. “I imagine that’s normal. I can’t- you’re right, I can’t begin to understand what it is like to be a slave, but it seems normal you would think that way.”

“I didn’t think of the future when I was with Danarius. That is a dangerous way for a slave to think. Leads to thoughts of freedom and escape. He made sure I never had the time for it.” Fenris sighs. “I am getting tired of blaming my past for my future, Dorian. I can only be angry for so long before it starts to break me.” He doesn’t mean to sound so weak, he really doesn’t, but he hasn’t slept and he still has no answer.

“Well, you’re wrong, you know. You can have a future. That’s what everyone’s fighting for, really. Corypheus wants to end the world, steal our future. Even if you don’t know quite yet what you want from it, isn’t just having a future to look forward to enough?”

Dorian watches him, something soft and warm in his expression that makes Fenris uncomfortable. Not because he hates it, but because he’s never had anyone look at him like that. He’s waiting for an answer, Fenris knows.

“It’s alright to fight for yourself. Not just to survive, but to be happy. To have purpose and to thrive. And if you can’t do that yet, then I’ll fight for both of us.”

“Why?” Fenris looks at him sharply, gripping the edge of the building. He thinks for a moment of jumping, just to shock his system into feeling anything but this dull ache.

“Because you deserve it,” Dorian says simply, and then gives him a sincere smile. “Now, are you going to come and get dinner or do I have to embarrass myself by making the server think I ordered all that food for _one_?”

Fenris slips off the roof without a word, and heads back inside. A thud, a muffled yell, and a curse tells him Dorian has followed after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fatuse: idiot  
> kaffas: shit


	22. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little detour as we check back in with solas at haven and get a fresh perspective on things
> 
> also! if you want to request any character interactions from anyone in wolf!verse just send me a message on my tumblr! i'm always happy to write stupid character drabbles
> 
> thalassiq.tumblr.com

Solas is not usually one to be worried. For centuries now he has perfected the art of being smug and sanctimonious and vaguely mysterious, never letting anyone catch on to any of the turmoil boiling beneath his skin. Tonight, Solas is worried.

It has been precisely three days since Fenris and the Tevinter disappeared through a breach in the veil, and at any moment they might return, and all that Solas has been working for will crumble.

He’d known it was coming. He couldn’t have predicted how soon. He’d hoped, perhaps, that he could befriend Fenris first, give him a better first impression, so that when the elf returned he wouldn’t try to flay Solas alive.

It’s strange, thinking someone will know his secret, and thrilling. It has been a long time of containing himself, hiding what’s threatening to surface at any moment, and keeping the beast contained. He wants to roar and yell and rip at the humans and show them his teeth, reveal the millennia of anger he has just barely kept from bursting through his seams. But like always these days, wisdom takes precedence, and he waits.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits, so he experiments instead. He knows they will come back eventually, has told everyone as much without revealing what part he played in it. Some nonsense about ‘the nature of this breach was temporal’ before he whisked off to his house and locked himself up. He goes into the fade and asks the spirits questions but gets no answers, and he researches the amulet Alexius used though he has a feeling he already knows how it works.

They’d captured the magister rather immediately, all things considered, and locked him away in the dungeons at Haven. After Solas had explained what happened, the rest of the Inquisition had been put to uneasy ease, at least knowing that Fenris would not be gone forever. (Or at least, they could hope).

His memory tells him that it takes them roughly three weeks, with his help, to return to the future, and that the nature of the amulet means they cannot predict the precise day to jump back to. That means they could arrive here tomorrow, or in two months. It makes it complicated to plan what he will say to them, to get safeguards in place.

He tries writing a speech down but it sounds too pompous even for him. He tries breaking a few flasks just to see if it eases his tension (it doesn’t). Finally he is forced to leave his house, emerging after three days of distant crashes and curses in Elvhen into the world of the living once more.

Well, sort of. It’s somewhere around midnight judging by the sky, and no one is out this late, save a single light in the distance that Solas knows belongs to Rutherford’s house.

That settles it. He’s never been one to avoid antagonizing humans, after all, and Rutherford’s been ripe for harassment since Solas first arrived in Haven. Besides, it might cheer him up to see Rutherford just as pale and worried as he. The Templar wouldn’t admit it, but it seemed to Solas that he was burning a bit of a torch for the little wolf.

Rutherford answers the door on the second knock, and looks rather surprised to see Solas standing there, hands folded calmly behind his back.

“Cullen,” he says, “might I have a word?” The Templar stares dumbly at him, and then nods, moving aside to let him in.

“Of course. We were starting to worry about you, Solas.”

Solas barely manages to hold in the derisive snort. “Were you?” he says, but he means _I highly doubt it_.

Rutherford just nods. “Can I, ah… get you anything? Tea, or…”

“No. I despise the stuff.” Solas enjoys the look on Rutherford’s face as he squirms, clears his throat, and mutters a soft, “No tea, then.”

For a long moment Solas just stares at him, wondering how long it will take Rutherford to kick him out or run away. It seems likely to happen at any moment, until some of the tension around Rutherford’s shoulders dissipates, and he settles down in a chair near the fireplace with a heavy sigh.

“I imagine you haven’t had any luck, then.”

Solas is almost surprised. He’d been expecting rudeness, at the very least. He’s disappointed to know that at least for now, he can’t be rude without consequence. He resolves to find more of Rutherford’s buttons to push, instead, and sits near him.

“It is not luck. But no, I have not discovered anything more as of yet.” Solas revels in how awkwardly the conversation is going, because he knows it means Rutherford is feeling uncomfortable. It makes him feel just the slightest bit better about his own situation.

“I feel useless,” Rutherford says suddenly, and it surprises him.

“Oh?”

“You’ve been doing all you can to help them. You have the knowledge and the skill, but I-“ He breathes another heavy sigh, and sinks a little more into his chair, looking unbelievably young and small for one short moment.

“That is what comes of wishing to understand what one does not know, instead of destroying it like the Templars.” He doesn’t manage to keep all the venom out of his voice.

What infuriates him more is that Rutherford just nods. “You’re right. The Templars didn’t exactly foster understanding. It’s no wonder the mages got in this position. I’ve been doing what I can to provide for them here, but we are woefully underequipped to take care of so many. They’re angry and scared and don’t know who to trust, and I’m sorry to say that no one has given them much reason to feel safe here, either. Maker knows I’ve tried, but it’s simply not enough.”

That’s wrong. This Templar isn’t supposed to believe such things. He’s not supposed to be reasonable. Solas came here to release some of his frustration, to be cruel without guilt, and instead finds himself faced with a tired man who is making it very hard to truly hate him. He thinks about all the things humans did to his people, all the things Rutherford might have done had he been alive, and tries not to let the fire in his heart die out.

No pity. No mercy. But don’t let him see the wolf hiding in plain sight. Easier said than done.

“I’m surprised to hear you say such things. I thought you a Templar.” It might have been amelioration, were it not for Solas’s underlying urge to sniff out weakness and tear out Rutherford’s throat.

Rutherford just laughs softly. “I was, once. But it’s been a long time since then, Solas, and I… I hope, at least, that I’ve learned from those days.”

“I should return to my studies,” says Solas, and stands, because he can’t think of what else to say, and tonight’s venture has been unsatisfyingly fruitless.

“Of course.” Rutherford frowns, opens his mouth, and hesitates.

“Yes?”

“He- _They_ -“ he corrects himself quickly- “will come back?”

“If I have any say in the matter.” _And I do_ , he adds silently, then turns on his heel and leaves, feeling even more pent up and frustrated than he had before.


	23. Hot Egg Mess

Fenris has decided to ignore the growing feeling of friendship between the two of them, but Dorian apparently has taken no such vow. He smiles when Fenris wakes, he makes sure to save enough food for him, and even says _good morning_ to him like it is entirely normal. It’s entirely too cheerful, and the fact that it’s not unwelcome just makes it unwelcome. He can’t begin to explain how much it bothers him that Dorian’s presence is a comfort now, and cannot begin to express how deeply grateful he is that he’s not alone in this.

Dorian is there, always by his side, witty and charming and so disgustingly good that it makes Fenris angry. He doesn’t know how to deal with it, when they leave the inn and pass some slaves, and Dorian actually stops and looks at them, his expression…

Well, Fenris doesn’t know what his expression is. They’re walking through the markets, the port ahead, and slaves are lined up at the auction block, some master or seller calling out prices and skills that he can understand no matter the language. It’s when he finally has to stop, ducking into an alleyway with muscles tense and body shaking, and Dorian follows wordlessly, looking so _understanding_.

He doesn’t mean to lash out, but maybe he does. “It hasn’t _changed_ ,” he snaps at Dorian, whose face falls a little. “A thousand years and it’s still the same, we’re just cattle-“ he’s more bitter than he means to be. He starts to pace, fighting the urge to laugh bitterly that’s become a defense mechanism. For once, Dorian doesn’t look flabberghasted or awkward or slightly guilty. He just looks Fenris in the eyes and says, “I know.”

That’s worse. Fenris’s hands connect with Dorian’s shoulders and he shoves, hard. “If you know then why do you let it continue? Why do you-“ he bites the rest of the words back because he cannot figure out how to express them, how to truly convey how deeply the wound cuts and how much he wants to hide it.

“You’re right, you know. Especially about me. Before I knew you, I was as bad as the rest of them. I didn’t even think about it. But I _know_ you now, Fenris. And you’re right. You opened my eyes. I didn’t do enough when I had the chance, and now I’ve lost it, and more of your people suffer.” He places his hands on Fenris’s shoulders, firm, but doesn’t push. He just holds him there, and looks him in the eye, and says sincerely: “But I will help you change it now, if that’s what you want.”

What he wants? What does he want? He wants Dorian to keep holding his shoulders, but he also wants Dorian to let go immediately. He wants to set fire to this port, but he doesn’t want to risk changing something in the future, to put their own lives at risk. He wants to save these people and it crushes him because he knows, without a doubt, that he cannot. He’s never cared this much about anything before, and he wonders vaguely if this is the result of the Inquisition, if it’s finally forced him to look outside his own struggles, to move from an abstract idea of ‘slavers need to die’ to a concrete one, to actual freedom. He cares and it hurts, and the realization makes his shoulders slump. Dorian is holding him up now and he cannot bring himself to move away.

“We will go home, Fenris. And I will join the Inquisition, and we will make the world a better place. You and I.” Dorian’s smile is so warm and comforting. Fenris hates how effective it is, but he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“I… was not expecting you to agree,” he says honestly, because what else is there between them anymore? The lies and the posturing are done with. He’s had nothing but Dorian’s endless company for nigh on two weeks, and that’s like months of interaction with anyone else in Haven, considering how often Fenris actually bothers to speak to anyone.

Dorian laughs, and pats his shoulder, then lets him go, leaving him feeling just a little cold. “I live to serve, Fenris. Or at least to shock and offend. It depends on how whimsical I’m feeling on any given day.” He winks, and flourishes back towards the docks.

“I’ll make sure to snort derisively and insult any slaver I see. You have my word. Perhaps I’ll set a cart or two on fire for dramatic effect.”

Fenris doesn’t have the heart to tell him not to, even with the threat of changing the future looming over their heads. His daily allotment of crises has already been met, anyways.

Buying the ticket is not so complicated. Dorian has picked up even more Ancient Tevene and is now able to communicate fairly well with the merchants. It helps that all who meet him find him disgustingly charming. Their journey is booked for the next day, and so at Dorian’s insistence they set out to explore the city a little more before they have to leave.

He is excited to point out architecture and structures he recognizes from his studies, and identifies the city as Corinthius, the Jewel of the Southern Coast. Fenris thinks it looks more like the Shitty Storm Town of the Southern Coast, but when he tells Dorian this it only makes the mage laugh and point out a temple to one of the old Gods.

“It’s a bustling commerce, you know. There are Dwarven outposts nearby, and it’s the foremost port for the entire South. From what I remember, an earthquake or a dragon or some such destroys it in 1025 TE and the Andrastians claim it’s in retribution for her death. Oh, those bastards back at the College will be _so_ jealous to know I’ve seen it first hand! I can just imagine their faces, I’ll ruin their entire year with this! I’m absolutely publishing a book when we get back, they’ll be _furious_.”

They’re walking along one of the many canals in the city when Fen’harel finds them. He is sitting on a column, wearing too much fur and looking indescribably smug about something or other, and Fenris notices him first.

“Aneth ara, da’len.”

“Fasta vass! Where the fuck did you come from?” Dorian shouts, and at least has the good grace to look suitably embarrassed about his outburst. He clears his throat. “That is, it’s just rude, you know, to go sneaking up on people when they’re out and about having a peaceful afternoon walk. Did I hear someone calling my name? I’ll just be over here in the shame corner.” He moves to leave, but Fenris grabs his wrist to stop him.

“Avanna,” Fenris replies, and folds his arms. He cannot help it if he is a little chilly- he still has not forgiven Fen’harel for the deception, and finds he vastly prefers the future Solas to this one. Something about Fen’harel’s smirk, or the way he holds himself so proudly, is infuriating.

“I thought I might capture a moment of your time before you traveled across the sea, Fenris. I have been speaking to friends.”

 _You have friends_? Fenris thinks, but doesn’t ask. He’s at least trying to be the calm, normal one for once. It’s a struggle.

“You might find yourself thinking I don’t have any friends, and I’m here to tell you I absolutely do, and they’re better than yours,” Fen’harel says a little imperiously, and waves his hand. “Nevermind. I came here to tell you where you might find that which you seek, once you reach Minrathous. There is a High Priest by name of Sethius Amladaris, who swears himself to Dumat. In his possession is a trinket much like the one that sent you to this time. Should you acquire this somehow, it may prove the catalyst to your return.” Fen’harel looks far too pleased with himself. Fenris kind of wants to punch him.

He can’t help it. He has to ask.

“In the future you have… changed. If a thousand years in exile did not do it, what does another thousand matter?”

Fen’harel simply shrugs. “I imagine I changed because it was prudent to do so. Do not mistake me for a jester, little wolf. I have had to do many things to survive, and I will do many more in due time. Be sure to come say hello once you return to the future, I’m sure we’ll have much to speak of.”

Fen’harel pauses. “Though I have to say, I can’t explain the baldness. Perhaps temporary madness? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m usually much hotter than that hot egg mess from your time. No matter, please tell future me that I’m disappointed in his life choices.” The god disappears in the blink of an eye, leaving both of them a little stunned.

“And I thought I was insufferable,” Dorian finally says, and they make their way back to their inn, to spend their last night in Corinthius. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fen'harel says hello to fenris in informal elvish, the way one might greet an old friend, and refers to him as da'len, an affectionate term an elder has for a younger in the clan. in response, fenris says hello in tevene. effectively he's still distancing himself from what fen'harel represents of the elvish people, in a rather subtle diss that fen'harel absolutely picks up on.


	24. Haven II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope no one minds these little interludes between episodes of dorian & fenris take ancient tevinter by storm!
> 
> more w/ solas in haven. "making friends".

On day ten, Solas gets a nosebleed. He is right in the middle of calibrating magical energies when it happens, leaves him doubled over with pain and collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. He doesn’t have the energy to get up, and he knows he’s pushed himself too hard.

The problem is, he doesn’t know what else to do. He hasn’t been this restless in centuries: he finds he can’t sleep for fear of missing their return, for not getting to them before anyone else does and cutting whatever happens off at the pass. He also finds that there’s a general air of concern; actual worry for Fenris and Dorian, because he’s not sure they _will_ make it back all in one piece.

He’s usually smarter than this. Before joining the Inquisition he would have never worked himself to the bone. In fact, all things considered he thought he was a rather relaxed sort. The type to take naps in meadows: a dreamer.

Lately, he’s been drinking tea. It’s a dire symptom of a greater evil, his own schemes coming back to bite him in the ass.

He’s still lying on the ground when the Templar finds him, and the mortification gives him a burst of energy to quickly sit up before Rutherford can bend down with those stupid warm hands and try to be nice, like somehow it’ll make up for his humanity.  He can’t compose himself fast enough, and ends up coming across extremely disgruntled when he asks, “What are you doing here?”

Rutherford frowns, and Solas’s eyes land on the tray the man had been holding a moment before, now sitting on the table.  Bread, water. Some sort of human stew.

“Ah.” Were he a lesser man his cheeks would color. Instead, he clears his throat. Before he can explain, Rutherford seems to shake out of his initial shock, and interrupts:

“You’re bleeding. I mean,  from your nose- er, is this a bad time?” It’s so awkward that Solas almost forgets to reply. He’s so stunned by the man’s stupidity, by the sheer annoyance of his existence.

“I brought you lunch,” the templar finishes lamely. Solas narrows his eyes suspiciously. One doesn’t simply bring lunch without an ulterior motive, after all.

“Why?”

Rutherford laughs, and then offers him a handkerchief. Solas takes it reluctantly, and makes sure to smear his blood right over the embroidered CSR in the corner.

“Are you always so suspicious about bread? I haven’t seen you in the mess for meals. _Are_ you alright?” The look of worry on his face seems genuine, which only serves to make Solas’s disgust grow.

 _I don’t need your pity_ , he thinks, but he says: “I appreciate the thought.” When he stands it’s shakily, and for a moment Rutherford looks like he’s about to reach out and steady him. Maybe it’s the look on his face, or just the general air of ‘danger, danger!’ but the Templar thinks better of it, and lets Solas make his way to the table on his own.

Rutherford sits down across from him, as if he’s somehow been invited to lunch too. Solas simply surveys the food and resists the urge to insult him.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Rutherford says, his voice warm and deep with concern. Solas looks him in the eyes but still can’t find any sign of falsehood in them. Disgusting. And entirely impossible. He must be concerned about losing Solas’s abilities, but not for the elf himself. It’s the only way. They haven’t talked enough, haven’t built up even a friendly rapport or a general acquaintance beyond morning greetings and the occasional ‘can you pass the salt please’. That this man shook take the time out of his busy schedule- and he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either- to come check up on Solas doesn’t mesh well with the wolf’s worldview.

“I’m sure you’re busy, Commander. I wouldn’t wish to waste your time with worry. I will be fine.” They’re clipped and precise and designed to make Rutherford leave but the Templar doesn’t. He just keeps looking at Solas, a soft frown and a crease in his brow.

“Do you… wish to talk?” Solas asks, and takes a small piece of bread. The texture is unappealing and stale and it crunches when he tries to bite it.

Rutherford seems uneasy, shifting slightly in his chair. His furred shoulders lift a little, bringing the mantle up around his ears, and then drop with a low sigh.

“It seems as if no one else in Haven has any concern for Fenris’s disappearance. They’re all so certain he’ll return. They keep planning and moving forward as if he’s just gone on vacation. But he’s _gone_ , and we don’t know when he’ll be back.” The Templar fidgets with the tablecloth, then clenches his teeth like he’s in pain. This close to the Commander, Solas expects to smell the fresh tang of lyrium in the air.

Really, it just smells like Mabari and dirt. What a charming man.

“He will return though. I am making sure of that, Commander. It is, after all, exactly the sort of thing I’m here for, is it not?” Does Rutherford doubt his abilities? It’s one thing when he’s dealing with his own self-doubt but he will brook no complaint from a Templar.

“Of course, but if you keep working like this, we could end up losing you too.”

“I am not as valuable to this Inquisition as its Herald.”

Rutherford frowns deeply at that. “Do you really think so? You’re invaluable, Solas. I may not understand what it is you do, exactly, but you’ve put your heart and soul into this more than anyone else. The mages have been here less than a fortnight and they already look up to you as a mentor. You’ve won Cassandra’s respect: no one here would question where your loyalties lie. We need you.”

It’s such a strange feeling to be needed that Solas doesn’t know how to respond. He wants to scoff, to wave the poetry away and write off sincere words as nonsense, but it’s made something inside him go slightly warm, swell with pride.

The wolf paces in its cage and whispers to him _they need you they need you they need you_.

Yes, well, his people need him more. The Inquisition will never be his people. He’ll get Fenris to see that too, and then- and then he’ll have real work to do. He’s only here to clean up his mess. Any dedication Rutherford mistakes for the cause of the Inquisition is pure selfishness on his part.

It has to be. He’s always been a very selfish man.

He’s reminded that Rutherford is indeed the Commander of the Inquisition’s troops, and must be used to giving pep talks at this point. _I’m rather above petty praises and ‘you can do it!’s,_ he thinks bitterly. He says:

“I… appreciate your opinion, Commander. I will try to take more breaks.” As he says the lie exhaustion hits him bone deep and his vision swims, but he forces himself steady because he is a _god_ or at least as close to one as these shems have ever seen, and he will not let the Templar see him weak. All he wants to do is sleep and drift and speak to the fade, find answers. There must be something somewhere that can bring them back. The Tevinter would be entirely expendable, of course, but Fenris was necessary.

“Solas? Solas! Maker, are you alright?” He hadn’t realized he’d slipped from his chair, or that the room had gone dark. He opens his eyes again and stares up into brown, worried and furrowed and crinkled at the edges with wrinkles. Solas has no wrinkles. His skin is perfect and flawless as it should be. He has no scars on his lips either, not like the big ugly one cutting across Rutherford’s face. His thoughts swim and float through a haze, so long that it takes him another full minute to realize that Rutherford is holding him, one arm behind his back, as if he’d tried to keep Solas’s head from hitting the ground. How had he gotten around the table so fast? Weren’t they talking about Fenris?

This was no way for a god to behave. He willed himself to get up but his body disobeyed. He tried ordering one of his arms to swing up, but all he got was a little twitch in his fingers.

Right. It was mutiny. The God of Rebellion’s limbs were rebelling. How ironic.

“Hold on-“ Rutherford is saying something else but Solas doesn’t hear it. He’s floating in air now- no, not quite right, Rutherford is holding him up, and then he finds himself surrounded by soft and warmth and then sweet nothingness.

***

It is unusual for him to dream. In sleep he explores, has always found himself much more at home in the Fade than the waking world. Tonight he knows he’s dreaming but he cannot seem to escape the mire. Spirits and thoughts swirl around him in an endless kaleidoscope of colors, and in the distance a voice calls _they need you they need you they need you_ and another answers _why did you forsake us fen’harel_ and beyond all that, a chant that thrums in his bones and through his veins: _you killed them you killed them you destroyed them all_.

He’s not a fan of dreaming.

***

There’s a cool cloth on his forehead and the smell of elfroot in the air, bitter and fresh like winter mornings. Warm light floods the room from the stoked fire he usually ignores; he’s long since stopped being a warm-blooded animal. His limbs feel lazy and heavy, movements sluggish, but the fog slowly clears from his mind and he realizes he’s in his bed, and there is a huddled lump in a chair nearby that looks suspiciously like a Templar with a hideous fur mantle that Solas has always been just slightly jealous of.

He clears his throat and the lump stirs, curly blond hair illuminated by firelight confirming that it is, indeed, the bane of his existence. So far this night he’s managed to utterly embarrass himself _and_ show his weakness to the Commander of the Inquisition, and the night could still be young. He doesn’t know, he’s lost the ability to tell time in all this haze.

Rutherford’s expression would have been priceless had it not been directed at him. Genuine worried is etched in the lines of his face. He leans forward and presses Solas back down to the bed firmly and gently, and the wolf in Solas wants to snap his jaws but instead he just frowns.

“You collapsed at the table. The healers said it was exhaustion, that you hadn’t slept in at least a week. Why didn’t you tell us?” Is there an accusing tinge to the Commander’s tone, or is it just Solas’s suspicious nature getting the better of him?

“I did not think it important. I assumed you would have more pressing matters to attend to than my insomnia.” The word feels like a curse on his tongue, but then he thinks of his dream and feels rather like he never wants to sleep again.

“Of course it’s important! Maker’s breath, we could have helped you! We have the resources to at least make you a damned sleeping draught, Solas!” The elf bristles again.

“I have the knowhow to make one myself, Commander. Had it been effective I would not be lying here like this being lectured.” It seems to take a little wind out of Rutherford’s sails, at least. He relaxes, just slightly, and looks less like he’s about to punch something or cry. (Human facial expressions are still mostly baffling to him.)

“Still, we could have worked with you to help. You haven’t eaten, you haven’t slept, and the healers said it looked like you’d been running on nothing but fumes and tea for at least a week.”

Solas shakes his head, then bites his tongue, because he can’t afford to let his damnable pride jeopardize what he’s built here, what he’s still trying to accomplish.

Instead, because he knows it will end the argument, he simply says, “I apologize. I will consult with the healers if it happens again.” They seem to mollify Rutherford at least, who nods and stands, feeling even more oppressive and imposing when he’s looming over Solas like that.

“I’m going to go fetch a cook to prepare you some food. Promise you’ll eat it when it’s sent.”

“Are you not going to come back and oversee my every action, Commander? Perhaps I can’t be trusted.” He was usually better about knowing when to shut up. This night was going very, very badly.

“I trust if you’re smart enough to understand all that fade stuff that you’re smart enough to eat when you’re hungry, Solas. And I expect to see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

 _Don’t tell me what to do you filthy shem_. “Of course, Commander.  Dareth shiral.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dareth shiral: goodbye


	25. Emerius

Waves crash against the side of the boat, stormy grey like the sky above, and Fenris remembers just how much he hates sailing. They’ve been at this for three days already, packed in like cattle with merchants and travelers and _actual_ cattle, and he doesn’t know what’s worse: being here, or heading towards Kirkwall. He’d thought when he left that he’d never see that shithole again, and now he’s going to have to watch magisters walking about it and real slaves matching the cowering poses of the statues that greet them in the Gallows.

Dorian, for all his bravado and confidence, is doing even worse. The first day they boarded he was immediately hit with seasickness, and has spent most of the past few days green in the face and groaning miserably about how the maker should have never invented the sea in the first place. _Just big empty deserts would be better! Hop on a horse, ride across to Emerius! There’s no krakens if there’s no water for them to dwell!_ Then he’d turned and puked into the bucket near his bedside and Fenris had left him to get some fresh air.

If he closes his eyes and ignores the sway under his feet it almost reminds him of home, what little he can remember when the scent of an ocean breeze or the sounds of seagulls hits him. Little snippets return here or there, more and more lately as if the connection is growing stronger.

He knew his name was Leto but now he remembers it, remembers a warm voice saying it and it feeling right. He remembers pain and screaming and _you aren’t leto anymore your name is fenris say it fenris fenris fenris_.

It aches like burning in his chest, only assuaged by the knowledge that the man who carved those scars is dead and rotting.

He goes back under the deck. He presses a cool cloth to Dorian’s forehead, and when the mage asks ‘when we’ll bloody be there!’ Fenris says soon, and hopes it’s true.

They arrive on the fourth day, the agonized faces of the statues polished and gleaming as they welcomed the ship in. Dorian nearly cries when his feet touch land again, and he states in no uncertain terms that if Fenris tries to make him go on a boat again he’ll leave him in the past and never look back.

It just makes Fenris laugh, and he leads the mage away from the docks, trying to block out the sounds of slaves and the moans of the downtrodden.

Emerius looks like Kirkwall, feels like Kirkwall, and smells like Kirkwall, but there is something slightly off, some faint tang of bittersweet death cloying in the air like a nightmare. The streets they walk seem familiar to him but the foreboding aura in the air seems more oppressive, steeped in dark magic that makes his markings sing.

He’s incredibly glad that Kirkwall is in ruins. It should never have existed in the first place. As they make their way into the markets Dorian perks up and the green fades completely. He begins to discuss wares as they pass, explaining the cultural nuance of this or that to Fenris who despite himself almost finds it a little interesting.

“And these- oh, these I haven’t seen recovered from a dig site complete before! Do you think it will be too terribly awful if I just slip a few in my pocket- ah, you’re still walking, I suppose that’s a no, then-“ He nearly bumps into Fenris who stops suddenly ahead, eyes fixed on a young slave being beaten by his master.

His fists clench. The markings glow- and before he has a chance to do anything he hears Dorian again, approaching confidently, determination in his gaze.

He can’t understand what Dorian is saying but the meaning comes across anyways, if the look on the master’s face is anything to go by. He sputters something in return and Dorian retorts, and the man’s hand goes slack, and he nods and lets the slave go. The boy clambers to his feet, sobbing, but the man does not lay another hand on him.

“What did you say?” Fenris asks when Dorian returns. The feeling in his chest is hard to describe, so he ignores it.

“Well it’s terribly rude, isn’t it? To be hurting that poor child like that. You know in Emerius there were laws against that sort of thing. It wouldn’t do to look _uncouth_ in public. I simply reminded him of those. And also called him a fat balding oaf.”

Fenris watched the little boy trail off behind his master, and the feeling in his chest constricts. “He’ll beat him once they’re home. Maybe harder, to release his frustration.”

“He won’t. He’ll be too distracted by the fact I just cursed him with a venereal disease. The rash won’t go away for at _least_ a month. I do hope he wasn’t destined to do anything important for history in that time, though really I doubt it.”

Fenris feels that swell again, and again refuses to acknowledge it. He just nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

They don’t spend any longer in Emerius than they have to- Fenris refuses to stay for even a single night to let them rest, preferring to find a spot on the road once night hits. They purchase horses thanks to another stolen purse, and when they ride out of the city gates he doesn’t look back.

“Do you think they’re worried?” Dorian asks as they ride, pulling Fenris from his thoughts.

“Who?”

“The ones you left behind. That merry band of travelers. The _Inquisition_ , you know.”

Oh. “I… don’t know. We could end up returning to the same moment we left and they’ll never know we were gone.”

“Had we the actual amulet used to send us back, yes, that would be possible. But we’re using something entirely different, the prototype as it were. Being able to calibrate it to the correct time might be… complicated. Really we can just hope for the right year and pray nothing important’s been exploded when we arrive.”

Fenris hadn’t thought of that. Would anyone be worried about him, knowing he was gone? It seemed a strange thought. They had been putting a lot of responsibility on him lately. Asking his opinion. _Listening_ to his opinion. He was making decisions, and perhaps they would value that- but leaders were replaceable.

Perhaps they missed his mark. That was important, too, and a bit harder to replicate. He supposed that gave him some value to the Inquisition. A reason they let him stay, a reason they pretended to care. They needed it.

They didn’t need him.

“Ah. You’re doing that brooding thing. Furrowed brow and all. You know if you keep doing it your face will get stuck like that.”

“What makes you think it hasn’t already?”

Dorian laughs. “A joke! You jest! That’s a good sign, I suppose we haven’t lost you completely to your musings. Now, I’m not yet an expert on the subtleties of your psyche, but we’ve spent a good amount of time together lately, so I’m going to venture a guess. Are you, perhaps, thinking that no one would miss you?”

“Why would they? They might miss my mark, like you miss a useful tool when you’ve lost it. But _me_?”

“Fenris…”

He waves his hand angrily. “Yes, they’re worried. Just not about me.”

“Is your opinion of yourself so low? I may not have seen much of them before we were swept off to this riveting adventure, but even a fool could see how they look up to you. Would they really allow you to gallivant with unlimited funds and an entire arsenal of sharp toys if they did not?”

“I’m good at killing things and destruction. They need those things. It doesn’t mean I’m anything more than a tool of the Inquisition.”

Dorian stops his horse suddenly, and Fenris follows suit, thinking perhaps there are bandits on the road ahead. He’s already gearing up for a fight, but Dorian just turns a little in his saddle and stares him straight in the eyes.

“You are a fool, Fenris. But a tool? Never. You are brave and smart and though you’d never admit it, incredibly caring. I’ve seen all these things and I’ve only spent a week with you. I can’t imagine a single member of the Inquisition not knowing it already. You will never be a tool.”

The words wrap around his shoulders like armor, but he cannot help the doubt in the back of his mind. It is easy to let Dorian talk, but it’s much harder to believe, no matter how fervent or sincere Dorian seems. He has always been a tool, hasn’t he?

He doesn’t know why that should change now.

“You’ll see,” says Dorian, and kicks his horse into a trot once more. “When you return you’ll see how much you mean to them.” If he sounds a little sad, Fenris doesn’t say anything.


	26. Haven III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im just titling all the solas ones as haven I, II, III, etc so that if you really want to you can skip them! they're not exactly necessary for the plot, but may offer some insight into the other characters in the inquisition.

On day eleven he finds himself slightly regretting day ten, and it’s for all the wrong reasons. He’s been acting foolishly, erratically, unwisely. It’s only good that no one else has seen him come undone, for no one else dares to approach his hut while he works feverishly. On day eleven, however, after a strangely dreamless sleep, he’s feeling rested enough to admit that perhaps he’s been a little harsh.

It’s easy to be harsh when he thinks about absolutes and ideals. When he thinks of Rutherford as nothing but an abstract, a nemesis through which he can test all his convictions. Unfortunately, Rutherford is a real person, and like real people he is infuriatingly unpredictable. Solas can hold an argument in his head and come out on top, but he finds that when he tries to talk others he defaults to ‘vague and mysterious’ or ‘kind of a rude bitch, actually,’ as Sera had put it.

He knows this. He’s not stupid. He’s been alive far longer than the others, though admittedly he spent most of it in the fade talking to spirits. Perhaps his waking world social skills need a bit of honing, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, and he was actually once a very charming and charistmatic man, thank you very much.

It’s why he decides, against no small bitterness still residing in his heart, to attend breakfast as the Commander had asked.

He’s less impressed to find that Rutherford isn’t there. Instead, Varric calls out to him, a friendly, “Hey chuckles, decided to join the world of the living?” The dwarf is always friendly, and always somehow distant. Solas admires that about him, how he can draw people towards him yet keep them all so far away. Perhaps he envies it. Perhaps he doesn’t.

Either way, he sits next to Varric at the table. “I thought perhaps I was spending a bit too much time in my home,” he tells Varric, and it’s not exactly a lie. He just doesn’t feel the need to tell Varric _why_ he had decided that.

He has to keep this smooth. Varric is smart, and he can pick up on any tells. It’s imperative to have a perfect poker face when talking to the dwarf. A few times now he’s seen some look in Varric’s eyes, some _knowing_ , as if the dwarf has caught some imperceptible crack in his armor and has seen his true face.

Nonsense. This _is_ his true face. He just has a few of them. Interchangeable. He’s not lying, per se. If he speaks in half truths it is for their sake. He has nothing to hide. (You killed them, you forsake them, you locked them all away, you’re the downfall of your people, you monster.)

He takes a bite of his oatmeal. “Ah. On second thought perhaps I should have remembered the state of cuisine in Haven.”

Varric laughs, and offers him a piece of toast. “Easy there Chuckles, you’re already looking pale. Don’t need you getting sick all over the table.” Solas accepts the offering with some small gratitude, and finds the toast is at least an acceptable alternative. Varric gives him a grin.

“You worry too much. You have this little crease on your forehead when you’re overthinking something.” His voice is slightly cautious, as if he’s not quite sure whether his advice will be welcome or not.

Solas is too tired to be offended, so he just waves vaguely. “There is much to worry on, Varric. I at least have not forgotten how integral Fenris is to our operation.”

Varric frowns at that, leaning back a little, expression thoughtful. “You’re not the only one. I’ve known Broody a lot longer than most of the people here. I’ve seen what he can do. We need him.”

Ah. Solas had almost forgotten- Varric could perhaps offer more insight into the little wolf than anyone else, except maybe Hawke. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s prying, so his words are chosen carefully.

“What was he like in Kirkwall?”

The dwarf gets that look in his eyes, the same look he has whenever he’s ready to tell a story and has an audience worthy enough to hear it.

“The first time I met him he was ripping a slaver’s heart out through his chest and doing that glowing thing,” he starts, and Solas has to fight a laugh at the mental image. Yes, it seems an accurate enough portrayal of their Herald. He feels something like kinship well up in his chest.

“Back then he was darker. More distant, I think. He hated magic without thought, and he fought against Hawke on every decision. But for some reason he never left.” Varric pauses, frowns, and it’s clear he’s omitting something he doesn’t think prying ears deserve to hear. Solas thinks he already knows the answer: the little wolf had fallen for the Champion of Kirkwall.

“He was there for it all. The Arishok, the rebellion, Anders-“ Silence, another pause, another backtrack. “He’s terrifying on a battlefield, but you know that too. It’s like he’s still always just fighting for survival. That’s what Fenris is like, always throwing himself heart and soul into everything. I don’t know if he realizes he does it, but he’s not the kind of guy to half-ass when he can full-ass.”

Solas smiles. This, too, meshes well with his image of the Herald. A man so consumed with everything, distant and rude to protect what is still an innocent heart.

“That’s why I know he’s coming back. If there’s one guy it’s impossible to kill, it’s Broody. He’ll claw his way out if that’s what he has to do, stand on a mountain of bloody corpses to reach the top, because he doesn’t leave things unfinished.”

“It seems he thinks he must stand alone on the mountaintop.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it. He needs friends, Chuckles. The way I figure, it’s up to us to make sure that happens. Make sure he knows he’s not alone, even if he stubbornly keeps insisting he is.” Varric smiles fondly, and it’s clear to Solas that he truly does care about their Herald, not just as a symbol of the Inquisition but as a friend.

Solas has no friends. He ignores the sudden, sinfully mortal twinge of jealous in his chest.

“I thank you for your time, Varric, and your insight.” He moves to leave.

“I wasn’t just talking about Fenris,” Varric says as he stands, and gives him an infuriatingly meaningful look, one eyebrow quirked to get his point across.

Solas doesn’t bother saying it, but he knows the truth: the difference is, he _is_ alone. That’s how it has to be.

He finds the Commander ordering troops about near the tents outside the main gates, looking paler than usual. Every so often he turns and hides a wince of pain into the fur of his mantle, and Solas’s senses pick up on it like a hunter stalking weak prey.

He resists the urge to antagonize. He is here to set things straight. He’s long distanced himself from the arrogance of his youth.

“Commander,” he greets, and Rutherford looks a little startled to see him there. He straightens slightly, and clears his throat.

“Solas. I wasn’t expecting to see you out of your hut.”

The elf waves a hand. “You asked me to. I thought it would be impolite to turn down your request, especially after I gave my word. I find it a little curious, however.”

“Er… what curious?”

“How you expected to know whether I kept it, when you yourself did not show.”  At least the commander has the good grace to look a little guilty.

“I lost track of time, I suppose.” This close, Solas can see how gaunt the man is, how exhausted. If Solas has not slept in a week, then Rutherford has not slept in much longer than that. How he manages to keep standing, head high, is a wonder.

Solas almost respects it. _Almost_.

“No matter. I took the liberty of bringing breakfast to you.” He holds the apple like a peace offering, one of the few hardy fruits that can survive the journey to Haven. Rutherford stares at it like it’s some foreign monstrosity, before taking it with a small nod of thanks.

“This makes us even, then,” Solas tells him. Rutherford just looks slightly bemused.

“Even for what?”

“You brought me food when I was feeling unwell. I came here to… thank you. I realize my behavior yesterday was more than a little uncouth.” And completely called for, given what Rutherford represented, but wolves had to make many sacrifices to maintain the illusion of being tamed.

Cullen doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s staring at the apple like it’s still some foreign object.

“… Generally one eats apples, Commander.” Rutherford starts, and then looks up at him like a lost puppy.

“Right. Of course.” He clears his throat, and then takes a bite. “Maker, I think I forgot what food tasted like.”

Solas just gives him a small, thin-lipped smile. “I’m glad I could be of assistance. Should you need anything, Commander, you know where I will be.” It wouldn’t hurt to have the man in his debt, after all. Perhaps it would make it easier to reconcile him then.

“Solas-“ Rutherford stops him before he can turn to leave, frowning. “I meant what I said. About you taking it easy. Just… don’t burn yourself out, alright?”

“Likewise, Commander.” He leaves, and he’s not sure if he feels relieved or annoyed.

Maybe a bit of both.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! im back!!! sorry for the hiatus i hope this chapter makes up for that 
> 
> id also like to thank everyone so much for all the comments you guys have been leaving me, it feels really good to know that my fic is enjoyed and i love all of u, we are in this trash heap together. i promise i havent forgotten about this fic, it is still my darling baby.
> 
> edit: wow my dumb ass forgot they left emerius THATS WHAT I GET FOR GOING ON HIATUS its fixed now 
> 
> tumblr is thalassiq.tumblr.com

It seems most of what they're meant to do is wait. The transport north towards Minrathous is taking some effort on Dorian's part to secure, and until they can manage to steal enough money to make it onto a caravan or sign on to guard some merchant's wares, they are stuck in this tiny town on the way to the capital. They ran out of rations just before they reached the town, and Fenris had only been able to steal enough to feed them and get them a room. Fenris isn't used to having much free time, and it's put him in a foul mood. He paces their room at the top of a spindly little inn overlooking Lowtown, fists clenched and markings aching to be released, to let him _punch_ something and stop all this pointless energy.

He can't. It's a terrible idea and he can't, and he needs to make sure that here, of all places, no one catches word of what he can do. Dorian is out in the market, and had Fenris the patience he would have joined him, kept guard as the (surprisingly ignorant in the ways of the world) nobleman bartered with fruit vendors, looking delighted all the while at actually _speaking_ Ancient Tevene! He'd wanted to, of course, not trusting anyone in this city with Dorian's safety, but had acquiesced when Dorian made the point he was more likely to start a fight than anyone else at the moment.

When he's finally sick of pacing he drops down to sit in a chair, leg shaking irritably, and looks around the room. Modest, but warm. Honestly it was about as nice as he could have expected given their meager means and general unwillingness to take up jobs and ruin the timeline. Existing in a world you did not belong wasn't part of Dorian's skills. Fenris could tell the anonymity was taking its toll on the mage.

There's nothing to do in this inn, and the longer he stays cooped up the likelier it is he'll start a fight or call attention to them, so he climbs out the window onto the roof to get some fresh air. His big green eyes close and he lets his head fall back, fresh sea breeze ruffling silver hair as warm sun hits his face. If he doesn't look he can trick himself into thinking he's back home on Seheron, and that smell isn't rotting fish but a fresh salty breeze. That those sounds in the background are seagulls and not the tortured moans of slaves.

A drop of blood drips from his lip to his collarbone as he realizes he's tense. Been biting it, worrying away at the skin since they arrived. Below him he hears the door open, and Dorian announce his presence.

“I'm ba- oh honestly, did he leave?” Fenris can hear the sound of Dorian moving about the room, setting baskets down, and then making his way over to the open window still murmuring.

“Bloody elf, can't even leave a note-”

“Pavus.”

Dorian jumps, yelps, and hits the top of his head on the window frame before looking straight up. He glares at the soles of Fenris' feet.

“You can't sneak up on a man like that, Fenris, you'll give me grey hairs!” He surreptitiously fixes his hair and leans against the sill. “About that bloody bit-”

“You were worried.” The elf slides down onto the sill and sits, inches from Dorian who takes a sharp breath and leans forward almost imperceptibly, before thinking better of it and rocking back.

“You can't just disappear in a strange foreign country _in the past_ and expect me not to, you know. Common sense and all that.” He's sharp and lacking the usual flourish that accompanies his word, which only serves to convince Fenris further of it.

“Why? You're capable enough, Dorian. You could likely finish this quest even without m-” Dorian holds up a hand and silences Fenris with a finger to his lips, eyebrows pulled down in consternation.

“Would you _stop_? You've been like this all day and it's fucking insufferable. You _can't_ leave because I need you here, alright. I'm about at my wit's end here and the last thing I need is to be alone, too. And I think you need me around too, because otherwise no one would call you out on your self pitying bullshit and make you stop and think for a single second. Perhaps if you _did_ you would realize that I'm here, and I'm not leaving you, and the sooner you accept the fact that we're friends and that someone cares about you, the sooner we can move on to real problems!” By the end of the speech Dorian is looking a little sheepish at losing his temper, but still stands his ground, wanting to avoid looking too much like a spoiled child.

Fenris just looks down at his hand, and grips at the warm dark wrist, frowning. Dorian's finger is still on his lips and it should piss him off, but he finds that most of the anger has left him.

“Did you forget your eloquence?” Fenris asks, and takes a step forward. Dorian looks a little frightened, and drops his hand quickly.

“I'm sorry- I just- You are incredibly frustrating at the best of times. I am thirty years old, despite what current behavior would have you believe, you know, and not some spoiled rich boy like you've been pretending. I have feelings too, and also apparently nerves, which you love to get on. But you are also all I have right now. I would love to bluster and boast that I'll protect you, Fenris, but the truth is that I need you too. So please, don't talk about leaving as if it's that easy to turn your back and be _alone_. Trapped. It's too awful to think about.” Dorian is looking away now, and he does look vulnerable. Not weak, but mortal. Fragile and complex and beautiful-

Fenris lets out a rough snort of laughter.

“Are you _laughing_ at me? Oh, very nice. Here I am, pouring my heart out and the bloody elf laughs at me.” Dorian is running a hand through his hair again, nervously, looking to the side like that will get him out from under Fenris' scrutiny. “That's the last time I-”

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” Fenris murmurs, and takes a step forward. This is ridiculous, isn't it? After so long together they both must have snapped. It's the only explanation he can think of for why he catches Dorian's hand before it goes back up to ruin his hair further. Why when he touches that skin all he can think about is how warm it is, and how fucking grateful he is that he's not alone here. He could have been, if Dorian hadn't run after him. If the mage hadn't unthinkingly followed after the ghost from his past whose first words on reunion had been threats and derision.

“It's your fault,” Dorian replies softly, looking at Fenris with something that isn't disgust or fear so Fenris doesn't recognize it. “You've ruined a perfectly exciting jaunt back into the past, you know. I haven't been able to enjoy anything because I keep thinking about how much it's hurting you.”

“Dorian.”

“If Felix were here he'd appreciate this. Or Alexius. Before he went crazy and sent us back here, I mean. I have plenty of friends back in Tevinter who would let me enjoy it, but here I am with you, about to enter the greatest city in the Imperium! And I cannot enjoy it because all I can think about is you.”

“Dorian, shut up.” Is this a moment? Are they having one? Fenris isn't sure what else to say. He doesn't know how to stop Dorian from worrying, from talking until his tongue falls out or one of them starts laughing and crying hysterically. It's going to turn into a whole Thing and he just doesn't have the energy for it, not here, not now. Maybe he doesn't mean to when he takes those final steps forward, and he must look as confused as Dorian does when there's no more space between them. Two rams caught at the wrong end of chain lightning, feet frozen to the ground until one of them makes the final move and Fenris can't tell who it was, only that he's pressing his lips against Dorian's and neither one of them is pulling away.

The world stops. He'd always expected it would, of course. Just never expected a _Tevinter_ to be on the other end, not even one so endearingly frustrating as Dorian. He'd thought maybe after Kirkwall that Hawke would have turned his back on the traitor and fallen into Fenris' arms, and Fenris would have said 'I told you so' and made all the problems go away.

This kiss doesn't make anything go away. If anything he's suddenly hyperaware- of the little hitch in Dorian's breath, the way he tastes like figs (Fenris has finally found a way to make the taste palatable), Dorian's eyelashes fluttering, their noses bumping together. The height difference is a little awkward: Fenris has to slid onto tiptoes to reach Dorian, tugging him down by the back of the neck in annoyance so he doesn't have to reach so far. When they finally pull apart, Fenris finds he's been pushed back against the wall and can't remember how he got there, and Dorian is warm against his chest, not moving far enough that Fenris can forget the way his body heat feels.

“I-”

“Well-”

They both speak at the same time, then stop. Fenris looks up at him, jaw tense, waiting for the hammer to strike.

It doesn't. Dorian presses forward and kisses him, gentler this time, like he's just stalling while he finds the proper words to express himself.

“This is a bad idea,” Fenris murmurs against his lips.

“You started it,” Dorian points out. “Ah, that came out petulant. But the point still stands.”

They don't want to pull away, and it's so strange to think he's not the only one who's felt this. Dorian is just as enraptured. They're caught in each others' orbits when even a month ago Fenris would have left the man to rot in the past given the chance. It's frustrating how easily Dorian's wormed his way under Fenris' skin.

“We can't,” Fenris finally says. “It's a terrible idea.”

“It really is,” Dorian admits with a sigh. “But I've never been one to let that stop me.”

“We can't afford to be distracted,” Fenris points out. He hasn't let go of Dorian's wrist.

“No. We can't. That way leads disaster.”

“So this...” Fenris gestures between them, at the tiny space they're allowing themselves. _Breathing room_. “This can't happen.”

Dorian swallows, and then finally pulls away, clearing his throat. “Right then. Ah. I brought dinner.”

“Dinner is... good.” Fenris goes to look through what Dorian's purchased.

“And I found us transport! Tomorrow morning a merchant leaves for Minrathous and has invited us along in return for protection from bandits on the way. Er, it shouldn't be too hard, right? I've never... done mercenary work before.”

Fenris snorts, and they fall back into conversation easily. If he can't forget the way Dorian's lips felt against his, well, he's always had a good Wicked Grace face.


	28. Nemo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow its been over a year and i come back w/ a chapter update and theres not even any smooching in it im very sorry
> 
> it'll take me a lil while to get back into the swing of things, sorry for being gone so long! i'm about to graduate uni and get my degree so!
> 
> latin left untranslated on purpose, to reflect how fenris has no idea what the fuck he's saying and is just kind of guessing thanks to context
> 
> i also really wanted to thank everyone for their lovely comments and support of this fic! when times are rough i read the outpouring of love for something i've done and it fills me with warmth! ive been reading every single one of them, and i'm sorry i'm so bad at replying! i will try to get better. thank you all so much for liking wolf!

Mercenary work is very hard, as it turns out. Dorian's had this look of extreme distress and distaste on his face since they met with the caravan and set out on their journey, and if Fenris weren't so busy trying to keep them all alive he might have found it endearing. It's not that Dorian isn't used to hard work, or earning his keep. Fenris gets the feeling that his days of playing the spoiled noble have all run out. It's a credit, really, that he hasn't said a single offensive thing to their employer yet. In fact, beyond the necessary translating to get them going, Dorian has been uncharacteristically quiet. When they get moments to themselves, Fenris finds himself watching the mage, catching the grimaces and eyebrow twitches that signal his ever-changing displeasure. He knows when Dorian makes that face where his nose wrinkles up that it's a specific comment on the mud currently ruining his boots, the same way a body knows it's breathing. 

For lack of a better term, Fenris is used to  _ slogging it _ . Months spent on the road, tracking or being tracked, have lent themselves well to coping mechanisms when it comes to the endless drudgery of travel. They've swapped out their horses for spots on one of the carts, a small mercy Fenris would thank the Maker for were he the type.  It seems silly, in the grand scheme of things, to be so focused on petty details. They're on their way back to the future to save the world. They have been trapped, unbelievably, within the past. Yet none of it seems as real and urgent as the way his relationship with Dorian has shifted. 

It's undeniable. It's irresistible. It's going to get them both killed if Fenris doesn't snap out of it soon. That kiss might as well have signed their death warrants with the way it pulls his mind from the present, incapable of focusing on the task at hand. The undead attack them off the road one night and Fenris nearly loses a hand to the bite of rotting teeth, because Dorian had been injured first. He'd had to rouse himself from the wave of paralyzing anger, honing it into something sharp and deadly. The risen hadn't lasted long after that, and they'd spent the night in a cave, bandaging wounds while the merchant counted coins. 

He tries to think of Hawke, and feels a traitor for it- using the man for his own emotional shortcomings. More than that, it stings to think of the men in the same way. Hawke had been his anchor  for years. Dorian was coming on roughly three weeks of constant annoyance and little more. They weren't  _ comparable _ . Dorian distracts him, for example. He'd never hurt himself watching Hawke cast magic. Hawke's spells had been forceful and straightforward, the Fereldan in him shining through with bravery and honor. Dorian dances on the battlefield like a snake, weaving through expectations and feinting left when you think he'll go right. When a situation calls for fire the man summons ice just to be contrary. It infuriates Fenris. It captivates him. He’s spent three weeks in constant companionship of the man and not grown weary of his conversation once. Yes, the personality grates. Dorian is a grandstander, loud when he should be quiet, exuberant when there is nothing to feel joy about. 

Fenris must be contrary too. He must be losing his Gods-damned mind, is what it must be. 

He simply cannot forget about the kiss.

They are five days into the journey to Minrathous when they encounter what’s left of a slaver’s caravan, bloated corpses dashed against the rocks lining the royal road. Fenris feels bile rise up in his throat as he clears the path, Dorian working quietly beside him. It’s these moments of rare silence that Fenris often mistakes for solidarity. As if Dorian truly understood. The merchant complains about making time, and cares little for the dead slaves at his feet. He steps on an elven child’s rotting hand and makes a noise of disgust, then retires to his cart. Fenris doesn’t understand the excuse he gives, but it must be unsatisfactory.

They’re far enough out of earshot that Dorian begins speaking in earnest- “The man’s insufferable! You’d think these bodies were broken glass on his kitchen floor! These are  _ children _ !” Fenris shuffles through some debris and finds a small doll in the wreckage. He picks it up, stares at it, and sets it on fire.

Beside him, Dorian mutters, “Startling,” but makes no move to stop him.

Fenris stares at the doll for a long moment before the heat registers, and he drops it quickly.

“Are you setting things on fire with it now?” Dorian asks, gesturing to the mark on Fenris’ hand, but the warrior has already drawn his sword, tense and looking around.

“Fenris- Fenris?”

He holds a hand up to the air. “That was not me.” Dorian looks both relieved and more concerned, and reaches for his own staff.

He doesn’t make it- the ice freezes him in his place, but only tickles against Fenris’ feet before melting away. 

“ _ Quis es _ ?” The voice demands. From Fenris’ right, among the rubble and decaying bodies, emerges an elf. Tall, pale as a ghost in the sunlight, with freckles and deep red hair. At least, as far as Fenris can tell: he is also covered head to toe in dried blood.

With Dorian frozen, his translator is lost to him, and it seems somehow very important that this elf know they are not enemies. On closer inspection, there are deep raw-red marks on the elf’s wrists and ankles, as if manacles had squeezed too tight for too long. 

He holds his hands up, and the elf’s eyes narrow, honing in on the mark on his left. After another moment, the elf holds up his own left hand. The air there freezes, coalescing, forming a dagger that floats just above it. He looks pointedly at Fenris’ hand again, then his own, and then at Dorian.

“ _ Est tua Dominus _ ?” 

Fenris recognizes the solitary word, and makes the connection. “ _ Non est _ ,” he says. His grasp of the archaic language is rough, but he’s picked up a few things from Dorian in their journeys. He cannot hold a conversation- but the elf seems to pick up on that as well. Something about the way his lip curls, and he shortens his sentences, announcing them clearly and pronounced clean.

“ _ Quis est?”  _

Fenris is getting annoyed fast with this song and dance, but even he is not going to attack the sole survivor of a slave massacre. He wants to protect this elf, this  _ mage _ , who has been shackled. 

“... _ Amicus _ .” He gestures to himself, to Dorian- but not to the merchant who has retired back to the cart, who is far enough away not to notice or care. 

With a cough and a sputter, Dorian drops to his knees, cracking his neck as he shakes the ice off. He looks a little embarrassed, too.

Fenris carefully places his sword down, looking at the elf the entire time. When he straightens, he gestures towards himself again. “Fenris.” He points at Dorian, who is still brushing ice crystals off his cloak. “Dorian.” And then he points at the elf. “ _ Quis es tu _ ?”

The elf’s shoulders slump, like all the energy has gone out of him, and Fenris can see he’s shaking now, barely holding himself together. Some of the blood on him may be his own.

“ _ Nemo,”  _ says the elf, and passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nemo translates to "nobody/nothing/no one" so no, it's not his real name. this marks the introduction of my version of lavellan, who will act as a companion since fenris seems to be taking the role of inquisitor! i hope you like him he's my child and my baby
> 
> here's some screenshots of what he looks like:
> 
> https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Czq7PXpVEAAloFV.jpg  
> https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Czq7ZgyUcAAJNYO.jpg  
> https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Czq7FsaUsAAWZQ2.jpg


	29. Tel'shal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because of the nature of this chapter, POV got a little wonky somewhere in the middle, since dorian's the only one capable of conversing with nemo (at least for now...)
> 
> here's a pic of nemo judging solas for being solas: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Czq-bAaUsAA0dMC.jpg

“Well, it was a dramatic entrance, you have to admit,” Dorian says as he picks the elf up off the ground. “Almost as good as mine. Do you think he planned that? I rather like him, I think.” The mage continues to prattle on as they bring the injured elf back towards the cart, and a merchant who grows increasingly more concerned as they come into view. By the time Dorian has placed the elf gently in the back amidst the man’s wares, the portly merchant has hopped to his feet and started speaking rapidly and harshly to Dorian.

Dorian, who merely gives the merchant a smile, and says something with “Dominus”, “quies” and “Minrathous” in it. Whatever it is, the merchant steps back, frightened, and nods quickly, rushing back to his spot on the cart and saying naught to stop them.

“He only relaxed when I said you weren’t my master,” Fenris murmurs, staring down at the unconscious elf. He had not been expecting resistance- not here, not when the Imperium owns everything. But the elf was marked on the face like the Dalish, and he knew it was something the Tevinters never did. What could it mean? Was he truly just another slave, a survivor with unique marks? A master being particularly cruel about a culture he helped destroy? The fact the elf is a mage seems strangely unimportant, considering all the other factors at play. There’s no way he’s in a position of power, a position of using that magic to destroy and corrupt the way the Tevinters so loved. The only branding Fenris can see on the elf is those strange tattoos, and the red round his neck and limbs.

It makes something bubble in his chest that isn’t quite rage, but close, something he can’t understand or comprehend right now. It makes the mark sing, like yearning, like loneliness. 

Maybe  _ he  _ should rest, if he’s personifying the  _ kaffassa  _ mark now. Instead, he says, “We need to keep moving,” to Dorian, who nods and does not argue. For a moment, they stand together alone, sheltered from the gaze of the merchant, and Fenris can feel the other man’s warmth.

It is only a moment, when Dorian places his hand on Fenris’ shoulder and squeezes, and then it passes, and they continue their journey.

The elf does not wake until they make camp that night, far off the road under the overhang of a cliff. They’ve built two fires- both to create the illusion of larger numbers and because the merchant wants to stay as far from them as possible. The elf,  _ Nemo _ , has been set gently near their own.

He sits up as Fenris drops their part of a freshly hunted kill on the floor, asleep one second and instantly alert the next. He reaches for a staff that is not there, and then begins to call up a blizzard before he notices he is not chained, and that neither Fenris nor Dorian are reaching for their own weapons. 

His shoulders slump, just slightly, and then tense again. He brings his knees to his chest, and stares at Fenris from across the fire.

“ _ You haven’t killed me yet,” _ he says in Tevene. Dorian answers, and Fenris busies himself with the kill, dressing it and letting them speak. Later Dorian will translate it, he’s sure. The man’s ever a gossip.

“ _ Now why would we do a thing like that?”  _ Dorian smiles warmly at the elf. The elf scowls back.

“ _ Because you travel with a slave.”  _ Nemo replies, nodding at Fenris.

“ _ He is NOT a slave _ ,” Dorian says firmly, the warm humor faded immediately from his smile. Nemo looks taken aback, but does not argue. In fact, the set of his shoulders becomes slightly less severe.

“ _ Neither am I,”  _ Nemo states with certainty, “ _ though I bear the mark of one.”  _ He gestures to the marks on his face- a sprawling tree branch that takes up most of his forehead, and the more intricate detailing on his chin. Dorian looks quizzical.

“ _ I beg your pardon? Those are the marks of your Gods, are they not?” _

_ “The Evanuris are not Gods, shemlen. They are… the Exalted. Nobility. Dominus.”  _ He shrugs, his own grasp of the language failing him. “ _ Non deus _ ,” he repeats. “ _ Tel’shal.” _

Dorian looks delighted. The past is a wealth of knowledge for him, and hearing even a little more of it- from one who represented Fenris’ lost culture no less.

The elves do not truly exist, during this time, the height of the Imperium. In Tevinter lore, they have been fully subjugated, fully enslaved. There are no remnants of Arlathan left. Yet this elf is implying otherwise. Later, Dorian will tell Fenris that Nemo is one of those remnants. Fenris, like always, will not know how to react to this.

“ _ If they are not gods, why wear their marks?” _

_ “Better to be a slave to Mythal than a slave to Tevinter _ ,” Nemo says grimly, and turns his head towards the sky. “ _ A mark my clansmen share. We subjugate ourselves willingly to her directive. Suledin.” _

“ _ Why do you speak Tevene?” _

“ _ Why does it flow so haltingly from your tongue?”  _ the elf responds, arch.

Dorian smiles. “ _ Show me yours, I’ll show you mine. _ ” 

“ _ Tevinter owns everything. There are few places your Old Gods have not reached. You have the look of a Dominus, yet say you are not. He-”  _ Nemo nods to Fenris, “ _ has the look of a slave, yet you say he is not. Is the merchant perhaps a secret king, or a horse in disguise?” _

Dorian laughs. “ _ I should hope not. It would make the rest of our journey quite awkward, don’t you think?” _

Nemo only shrugs infuriatingly, and looks away. After a moment, he speaks again, “ _ You travel to Minrathous. I shall accompany you. She has put me on this path for a reason. I would see its end.” _

_ “That isn’t my decision to make,”  _ Dorian responds.

“ _ Then ask your lath’sa, shemlen. I will wait.”  _

Which is how Fenris finds himself adopting an elf with Dorian. 

“We can’t keep him,” Fenris snaps. They have pulled away to a cluster of trees, just out of sight of the camp. They left Nemo tending the fire. Fenris still thinks the elf is half likely to stab them in their sleep.

“We don’t have a choice, Fenris! Would you have us leave him in the dirt? He is still injured. And besides, he may yet prove useful to our own goal. Minrathous is days away. 

Fenris can’t help but think of more wise words spoken by the wise Sera, and it is a struggle not to say them:  _ but he’s so… elfy _ .

Fenris does not care what others of his species spend their time doing, as long as it is not blood magic. And even Merril had been mostly harmless, despite her own foolish dabbling. Yet there is something about Nemo that grates on him. Perhaps it’s the pride, so reminiscent of their  _ other  _ elven visitor. Fenris has not met many Dalish, but he imagines they must be this way too. So sure. Steady. They know what they fight for. 

If Fenris can be sure of anything, it’s that Nemo is not fighting  _ for  _ them. And that  _ alongside  _ is not guaranteed should their goals cross.

“He could also stab us in our sleep and rob us of everything we own,” Fenris points out instead.

“We don’t own much, he’d be rather disappointed,” Dorian retorts. 

Fenris knows how this goes. They’ll argue in circles for hours until finally, exhausted, Fenris will throw his hands up and agree. Still, his stubbornness has gotten him this far, and he is about to open his mouth and reply when another announces their presence, and cuts him off.

“I like him,” says Fen’harel, perched on a branch above them. There is no telling how long he’s been there, and Dorian startles, muttering a curse under his breath. 

“ _ Vishante kaffas-  _ tell us when you arrive, would you!” he snaps. Fenris simply stares up at the elf- the god- whatever he is until Fen’harel hops down. The taller elf leans against a nearby tree, arms folded.

“Of course you do.”

Fen’harel grins, crooked and sly. “I’d like him more without those ugly marks, but we can’t  _ all _ be perfect.”

“He said they were the mark of a slave,” Dorian says warily. The man seems unhappy to be addressing Fen’harel- Fenris knows not what the elf might represent to Dorian. Perhaps the massacre his people helped enact. 

“He was correct. It is good they teach those elves some  _ proper  _ history in Tevinter.”

“He is not Tevene,” says Fenris, “and Tevinter slaves are not marked with the vallaslin. That is… in our time, a symbol of the Dalish.” The term does not seem to register with Fen’harel, who is staring at Fenris with something besides hunger in his eyes- and so Fenris cannot translate it.

“He is not of Tevinter?” This revelation seems to sit ill with the wolf, who begins pacing, hands behind his back as if to restrain himself.

“The only thing he said is that he serves Mythal, and that… he wears her mark so that Tevinter cannot claim him,” Dorian says. He has sidled closer to Fenris- marking the sides. Fen’harel now paces in opposition to them, facing away from their camp. 

“I will speak to him,” says Fen’harel, and starts towards it, but Fenris and Dorian both step in his path. Fenris cannot explain why.

“You will not,” Dorian says. “The poor boy’s been through enough tonight. Let him rest.” But Fen’harel glowers above them, his face contorted in a snarl.

“Do not mistake congeniality for friendship, shemlen. You will move, or I will move you.” 

Dorian looks as if he still intends to fight, despite himself, but Fenris touches the back of his hand gently, and shakes his head. It is not worth risking injury to protect someone they barely no. Even if Fenris also feels a spark of protectiveness around the elf, one born of solidarity too late to help the other slaves who were once in Fenris’ life.

But Nemo is Dalish, or at least whatever version of it exists before the Dales become the Dales, and so this is an affair best left to one of their gods. 

Fenris and Dorian let the wolf pass, and pray it does not come back to devour them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lath: love  
> sa: one  
> tel'shal: not sacred  
> non deus: not god


	30. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we'll be going back to fenris POV next chapter! for now, have an egg
> 
> all of fen'harel's conversations with "nemo" are in elvish, i just didn't make them italic for readability reasons
> 
> will i ever stop using this fic as an excuse to dump lore and headcanons on everyone??
> 
> (nope)

New memories surface for Solas from time to time. Little facts he’d long since forgotten, events reaching back thousands of years triggered by a smell, or a sight, or a feeling. Given the current circumstances, waking up with memories of an entirely new person are, at best, troubling. When he takes into account these memories focus on a period in time he knows to be compromised, these new memories take on an entirely new meaning.

What they tell Solas is that things have gone wrong. There is a specific script they all must follow, to ensure Fenris and Dorian make it back safely to the present. Any deviation from it, no matter how small, may have devastating consequences for the Inquisition.

He’s never claimed to be an expert on time magic, on paradoxes and stable loops- that he should wake up with new memories and recognize them as such may mark him as outside the timeline. As far as he understands, any new memories should feel like old truths.

The elf on Solas’ mind as he woke this morning had not been there when he laid himself down last night to ask the spirits for help. It is possible, perhaps, that he truly did forget the redhead, having 1200 some odd years to do it, but his mind has been on those few weeks in Tevinter since Fenris first went back, and he cannot imagine he missed such an important figure.

He spends the morning rummaging through his books, and then stalking to the chantry to tear apart their libraries as well, ignoring all concern sent his way. He can hear Varric talking to Cassandra behind him now, but has little time for their meddling. 

Time is not linear. He understands this. It is possible whatever events are taking place in the past are concurrent with this timeline. That the three weeks that have passed since their disappearance is happening in real time, and that major changes will have an effect following that rough timeline. 

Solas hates to admit it, but he simply doesn’t know enough to guess, and has no one with which to share these troubling theories. 

For a moment, he actually thinks he misses Dorian as well. Another scholar, another mage with which to test his theories. 

Solas… is lonely.

He works through the day, stopping only once when Cullen drops by with some bread and hard cheese, setting it by his elbow as he reads. The Commander does not stay long, only gives him a smile and tells him to ‘remember their agreement’, which Solas does, and has no energy to be snide about. So he eats, and he reads some more, and when theory proves useless he instead takes to history, trying to find anything of the elf in the books.

He finds a single passage, in an old history of the Dales, on the Arbor Wilds. This, he rereads over and over until its words become meaningless.

> _ There are elven ruins deep in the forests of the southern Dales, thought to once be a great city dedicated to the elven goddess Mythal. What little we know of this city has been lost to time and Tevinter conquest. It is said that during the fall of Arlathan, the ancient elves made their final stand here. Thousands of bones buried deep beneath the roots of the great trees give nourishment to the Arbor Wilds. _

He closes the book, sits back, and dreams.

 

***

The elf is wary as Fen’harel approaches- as he should be, as should all mortals, elvhen or not, when faced with a god such as he. In the back of his mind, Solas speaks and tells him to temper himself, but Solas does not belong here, should not be interfering. His time has not yet come, and Fen’harel is still a god. 

The elf in front of him must know this. Yet instead of cowering he sits straighter, jaw jutting in defiance, some flame in his eyes that Fen’harel has not seen in one of the people in nearly 600 years. It is a flame the little wolf carries too.

This creature is of Arlathan, and yet not. No memory of their people, no immortality- there is magic in him, wild and untamed, yet it burns cold, not hot, shrouding him in mist and ice. Across his face is Mythal’s mark, and that angers Fen’harel, for did he not fight for their freedom, for their right to bare nothing and no false gods upon their skin? It raises his hackles, makes him want to rage at the slight thing, make it bend to his will.

_ But is that not what they did? Is that not what Mythal’s mark symbolizes? _

The elf speaks first, distinctly lacking the reverence Fen’harel once required.

“ _ Ma tel’falon, harellan. _ ” 

“Then it is good I do not come as one, da’len.” Fen’harel takes a seat across from the elf, and watches him through the fire. In the distance, the merchant falls asleep, and will not wake until Fen’harel has left.

“Do not call me that,” the elf snaps.

“Give me a name, then, da’len.”

“...Caderyn,” says the elf. He looks defiant again, ready to fight should Fen’harel lunge.

The wolf has no plans on it tonight. This is a… curiosity, an elf who has not forgotten the old ways. Who knows him on sight but does not consider him a friend, despite Mythal’s mark upon his face.

Mythal.. was Fen’harel’s  _ only  _ friend.

“You know my name, Caderyn,” he says. Caderyn nods.

“I did not know my new companions travelled with a wolf,” he admits, and looks chagrined. As if he thought somehow he could have predicted Fen’harel’s presence. It’s almost cute.

“Two,” Fen’harel corrects. “But the alliance is temporary. You, on the other hand. You are unexpected. The little wolf has important things to do, and here you are, interrupting the story. Unfortunate timing.”

“We both go to Minrathous. But you. You appear as if on a whim, and twist the story into your own. You are no friend to them either, harellan. You are a ghost.” 

Fen’harel growls, but Caderyn does not back down. If anything, he becomes more defiant with every slip the wolf makes.

“I freed you, da’len, and your people. Yet you wear the marks upon your skin, as if what I did was nothing for you! I am the reason you exist, that you still draw breath! I led our people to greatness!”

“You were our demise, and when the fight no longer suited you, you abandoned us as the others did. Our struggles were the stage for your petty rivalries. I serve Mythal, because she is the only one who truly stood for our people. And she fell, because of you.”

He does not realize he has moved until his hand closes around the elf’s throat, squeezing enough to cut off air, to make the smaller creature kick and writhe in his grip. He only knows that he is standing now, that he is pressing Caderyn to the tree, and that he sees blood.

“You speak of things you do not understand, da’len. Tread lightly, or tread no longer,” he snarls, breath hot against the freckled skin in front of him. For a moment, he wants to bite down.

Instead, he meets Caderyn’s eyes, and instead of fear there, he sees anger, and he sees sorrow, and he sees a deep well of loneliness that threatens to eclipse his own.

And so he loosens his grip, and he steps back, and he swallows. 

He cannot be that prideful thing he once was. No longer, no more. There is no Arlathan, and so there cannot be Fen’harel.

Still, he doesn’t apologize. He hasn’t grown that much yet. In another 600 years, perhaps.

Caderyn slowly slides to his knees, taking deep breaths and rubbing at his quickly bruising neck. He looks up, golden eyes fierce and framed by the branches of Mythal, and speaks with a rough voice.

“You left, and our people did what we must to survive. You were not there. You freed us, and doomed us, and killed us, and then you left. Whatever we do now, it is not your place to judge.”

The words hurt. Fen’harel sits again, arms on his knees, and takes deep breaths.

“I thought Tevinter devoured us whole,” he admits. 600 years spent dreaming, since his mistakes, since Pride destroyed all and Tevinter came to scavenge the ashes. 

“Did you think we needed you to fight? To rebel?” Caderyn snorts, looks away. His palms are pressed flat to the ground, and drag dirt towards himself, as if to comfort him, root him.

“Yes,” Fen’harel says, because if they hadn’t, then why did they wait so long? “Were you slaves?”

Caderyn nods. “Once. We are not slaves now. We wear these marks so that Tevinter can not claim our spirit. It is Mythal’s.” The unspoken words:  _ it is not yours _ .

“Those marks once represented an empire that slaughtered your ancestors.”

“Now, they represent defiance of one,” Caderyn replies.

Fen’harel studies the elf for a long moment in silence, watching the way he gathers himself up again, stands tall, tilts his head up to glare at the wolf as if he has no fear of its jaws. 

Fen’harel thinks that Mythal must have chosen this one herself, somehow. 

“You will leave them when you reach Minrathous,” he says. It is an order, and a request. He is not sure he can make this man do anything. It is thrilling, to be unsure once more.

“I have my own mission,” Caderyn agrees. “I will help them, because I owe them. And then I will go.”

Fen’harel speaks to Fenris before he leaves once more, passing the surly elf coming back towards the camp as his conversation with Caderyn ends. The little wolf seems relieved that Fen’harel has not ruined him.

“You must reach Minrathous soon, and you must not dally. The longer you are here, the likelier it is you ruin everything with your presence. Change nothing, touch nothing. You will go, and when you return… seek me.”

Fenris scowls, arms folded, and looks back towards the Tevinter mage, who is wisely keeping his distance.

“I do not intend to stay here longer than I must,” his little wolf tells him. “And I can assure you, I will have  _ words  _ with your future self when I arrive.” The way he says words sounds more like he means ‘blood’. Fen’harel almost tries to ruffle his hair.  _ Almost _ .

“In Minrathous, seek the High Temple of Dumat. There is an amulet there that will guide you home.” He hands Fenris a scroll. “The spell in this scroll will activate it.”

Fenris doesn’t thank him, only takes the scroll and hands it gently to the Tevinter mage.

Fen’harel is tired. He bids them farewell, and disappears into the forest.

Spirits haunt his dreams that night, and ask him why he has forsaken them.

He cannot answer. He does not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma tel'falon: you are not my friend  
> harellan: trickster, but used by the dalish to mean "traitor to one's kin". i'll let you decide if its meaning has already shifted.
> 
> here's a picture of the face caderyn probably makes every time fen'harel talks: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C8CXcexVAAACnSA.jpg


End file.
